


break every inch of my love

by elizaham8957



Series: one step closer [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I can't believe I finally finished it, I don't know why that was a surprise, I thought it was gonna be about 16k shorter than it turned out to be, Lydia is a ballerina AU, background scallison, the angst is not stydia related for the record, the long awaited sequel to Pas de Deux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 17:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12611380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: “Lydia,”he sighed, pulling her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, wishing all her worries and fears would stop taunting her and just let her be at peace for once in her goddamned life. “You can’t dance forever,” he told her, kissing the crown of her head, her forehead buried into the crook of his neck. Her arms tightened around him, and he could feel the dampness of her tears on his shoulder through his shirt.“I know,” she whispered, so quiet that he wouldn’t have heard it if he couldn’t feel the words reverberating off of his skin. “But I can try.





	break every inch of my love

**Author's Note:**

> Well well well. Here it is. The long awaited Pas de Deux sequel that turned out, like, WAY longer than I anticipated. Seriously. SO MUCH LONGER. 
> 
> I have decided that I'm never gonna stop writing in this universe. I like it way too much. I have like six more full length stories planned out for these guys here. Sorry not sorry. A bit of background first-- this takes place a little more than two years after the end of Pas de Deux, and if you read [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12177684) one shot, about four months after that. 
> 
> A bunch of thanks first-- I feel like I start off every single fic thanking my amazing sister (@magicath17), but literally all of my fics would not exist without her. Haley, thank you so much for encouraging me and inspiring me and reading things when I'm not sure they work right, even when it's two in the morning. Your snarky comments on my google docs make my day, and knowing I have your support means the world to me. Stiles's and Lydia's chat on the beach is definitely inspired by our three hour walks on Mayflower where we just plan out each other's fics. I love you, sistah sistah. 
> 
> Thank you too to Allison (@im2old4thisotp) for listening to me rant about this fic constantly, even when she was in the middle of creating her own masterpiece. You're the best, and your support means the world to me. 
> 
> Finally, thank you so much to Ashley (@AshFranSan) and El (@raspberrylimonade / @stlnskissmartin) for betaing this beast for me. You guys rock. And thank you too the the Stydia Big Bang, which inspired this piece's predecessor. 
> 
> I should probably mention that this is a sequel to Pas de Deux-- I don't WANT to say you have to read that for this to make sense, but you probably have to read that for this to make sense. There's another little one shot I wrote in this 'verse that features their dog, if you missed that and want to hear more about Finn Stilinski. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, it really means to world. I would love to hear what you think-- either in a comment, or if you want to chat on Tumblr or Twitter (I'm @stilesssolo on both.) If you have any questions about this fic or this 'verse, or anything about any of my other fics-- I am always down to chat and answer asks! I literally hate doing my homework, okay. 
> 
> There are links to picture references of costumes and outfits at the bottom. Enjoy!

It was incredible, really, how little time it took for everything to drastically change.

Rehearsal started off normal enough— Nutcracker season was about two weeks from beginning, and choreography was still being reworked and repeated, over and over, until it was muscle memory. Today was the Waltz of the Snowflakes: Lydia was dancing the Snow Queen, Patrick was, naturally, the Snow King, Adelaide and Lauren were her lead snowflakes, and Lydia had been dancing with a comfortable ease she hadn’t had for a while— they’d joked and laughed as they ran choreography for the fiftieth time today; the stagers were barely concerned, because rehearsal was practically over at this point. Ever since the company directors had told her that as long as she did well this season, they would promote her to soloist next season, Lydia had been more stressed than _ever_ before at the prospect of messing up, and her body was starting to show the physical and mental strain that promise was imposing on her. Today, however, felt different, and rehearsal was effortless, easy, and refreshing. Lydia could just _dance,_ somehow push the worry and stress away and just focus on doing what she loved.

And then, before she knew it, she was on her back, the studio lights bright above her, her head a little woozy from its sharp contact with the floor, and an incessant, jarring pain in her left ankle.

It was almost hilariously ironic, she thought afterwards, that after doing this dance four or five times a week onstage for almost nine years, while fake snow rained down on them and turned the stage into a practical ice rink, making them fight tooth and nail for traction on the nightmarish surface— of course, when she slipped, it wouldn’t be on fake snow onstage, but in the brightly lit studio, marley floor clear of anything.

“Lydia!” she heard someone call, and the world came back into focus around her. Patrick was hovering over her, face etched with concern, Adelaide leaning right over his shoulder.

“I’m okay,” she said immediately, just because that was her gut reaction— you were never _not_ fine in ballet. Rehearsal went on, the show went on, and you dealt with the pain later. She took Adelaide’s outstretched hand, slowly clambering onto her feet again. Lydia could pretend she was fine, but it was abundantly clear the second she put weight on her foot— she was definitely _not_ okay. She yelped at the sharp pain shooting up her leg, her ankle feeling like there was a knife jammed in the joint, and Patrick immediately slipped his arm under hers, forcing her to lean on him and take the weight off of the offending ankle. The pain lessened, but it didn’t go away, still aching dully.

“You’re not fine,” Lauren said, standing on Adelaide’s other side. “Lydia, that doesn’t look good. Sit down, take off your shoe.”

Patrick practically carried her over to one of the stager’s chairs, everyone in the room loosely crowding around her. Lydia tried to block the tears gathering in her eyes as Lauren gently untied the ribbons of her shoe. She whimpered as Lauren pulled it off, and at the sight of her ankle, already swelling, her foot hanging at an angle that was slightly unnatural, Lydia couldn’t hold the tears in anymore.

“That looks broken,” Adelaide whispered, as if saying it loud enough would actually make it true.

“Can you wiggle your toes?” Lauren asked, the injured foot still resting on her knee. Lydia slowly wiggled them, wincing at the pain. “That’s good,” Lauren sighed. “No nerve damage.”

“You have to go to the hospital,” Patrick said. He turned to the other people in the room. “What’s closer, Mass General or Beth Israel? Or Brigham and Women’s?”

“How do we get there?” Adelaide cut in. “Do we call an ambulance? Is that only for life and death?  Do any of us even have cars here?”

“It seems wrong to get an Uber,” Emily said.

“I have a car,” one of the stagers interrupted. “And Mass General is closer, I think.”

Lydia’s head was swimming with all the urgent chatter from the other dancers, and she couldn’t keep the tears at bay anymore. Her ankle was only hurting worse, and it was even more swollen now, still resting gently in Lauren’s lap. “Lauren,” Lydia whispered, her voice strangled. The other dancer’s head immediately whipped to Lydia, but the conversation around them continued.

“Yeah?” Lauren said gently, her eyes wide and sympathetic.

Lydia took a shaky breath, trying to calm herself down. Bursting into tears right now certainly wouldn’t help anything.

“Can you call Stiles?”

***

Sitting and waiting was making Lydia more anxious than anything.

Adelaide could probably tell, because Lydia had her hand in a vice-like grip. They’d checked into the ER about fifteen minutes ago, and neither girl had said a word since. Adelaide rubbed comforting patterns on the back of her hand with her thumb while they sat, and it was something Allison did so often that it almost put Lydia at ease. The sharp pains radiating from her ankle, however, didn’t really allow for her to fully relax.

“Lydia!” she heard ring through the crowded ER, and she almost sobbed in relief at the sight of Stiles. He was still in uniform, his cheeks flushed from the cold— he must have come right from work. Which made sense, of course, because it was one in the afternoon on a Thursday. He pushed his way through the crowd, people easily parting to let him through after catching sight of the “Boston Police Officer” crest on the shirt of his uniform.

“Stiles,” she managed to choke out when he was finally in front of her, his hand immediately grabbing her empty one, his other hand on her arm.

“You’re gonna be okay, Lyds,” he assured her, squeezing her hand and leaning down to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Lydia knew his words didn’t make the situation any less serious, but hearing him say that everything would be okay put her slightly at ease. A little false hope was probably good for her.

“Thank you so much for waiting with her,” Stiles was saying to Adelaide. He’d dropped into the empty chair on Lydia’s other side, still holding her hand comfortingly between both of his. She could hear him talking to Adelaide, asking what happened, but she couldn’t focus on his words. Her ankle still hurt dully, still stuck out a little unnaturally, and all Lydia could think of was the fallout of this. Best case scenario, it was sprained or rolled and she would be back at work in a couple weeks. Worst case scenario— she didn’t even want to think about that. If it really was broken, like her gut was telling her, and she was out of dance for the rest of the season… what would happen to her promised promotion? What would happen with her position in the company? What if she could never dance the same again?

She was spiraling already, and she hadn’t even seen the doctor yet.

“Lydia Martin,” someone called, and Lydia’s head turned, her eyes falling on a nurse waiting with a wheelchair.

“Come on, babe,” Stiles said, both him and Adelaide helping her to stand. The nurse wheeled the chair over to her as Adelaide studied her friend, worrying her lip.

“You’re okay?” Adelaide checked, her voice concerned. Lydia nodded. She was terrified, sure, but Stiles was here with her now. That alone put her much more at ease.

“I’m okay,” Lydia assured her friend. “Thank you for waiting with me. You should go back to rehearsal.”

“Okay,” Adelaide agreed, her eyebrows still knot together with concern. She hugged Lydia quickly, squeezing her tight. “Text us when you find out more.”

“Of course,” Stiles said, nodding. He took Lydia’s hand, squeezing it comfortingly.

“Right this way, Miss Martin,” the nurse said, helping Lydia sit in the wheelchair as Adelaide turned to leave. “We’re going to figure out what’s wrong.”

“Okay,” Lydia said, voice shaky, the pain in her ankle still sharp and fresh. But Stiles squeezed her hand again, reminding her that he was there, and it was enough to put her mind _somewhat_ at ease.

***

Stiles had always hated hospitals.

They were too bright, the lights too harsh, the stark smell of antiseptic too strong. Every time he stepped in a hospital he felt like he was nine again, sitting in a room full of beeping monitors and watching his mother die.

He tried to avoid hospitals whenever possible. He couldn't even remember the last time he’d been in one— probably sometime in high school when he and Scott were bringing Melissa dinner. But being back in one now, nurses rushing by, machines beeping, hushed words echoing down the too-white hallways… it set Stiles on edge.

Not to mention the fact that he was here for Lydia.

It had taken about five seconds to confirm Lydia’s suspicions that her ankle was broken, and Stiles had already seen that overwhelmed, panicked look in her eye. Lydia had seemed to relax after they’d given her pain meds for her ankle, making her dazed and much more calm, but Stiles could still see that trace of fear lingering in her gaze. While a nurse examined Lydia’s ankle and talked with her, the doctor had pulled Stiles aside to go over what was wrong and what they should do moving forward; it was a good thing Lydia had been preoccupied for that part, because he could already tell she wasn’t going to like the news.

Hence, Stiles had escaped to call Scott, because he didn’t know what else to do. Not that there was anything he really _could_ do. Lydia’s ankle was broken, and it was going to need to be fixed, whether she liked the recovery plan or not. But still, Stiles needed someone to talk to about it, and seeing how much Scott cared about Lydia as well, his best friend seemed like a pretty good choice.

“Hey,” Scott said, picking up on the first ring. “Allison just told me you’re at the hospital with Lydia. What happened?”

“She fell in practice and broke her ankle,” Stiles said, keeping his voice hushed. Speaking it out loud made it feel more real. He could hear Scott’s sharp intake of breath through the phone.

“Shit,” Scott muttered. “Is she okay now? What are they going to have to do?”

“I don’t know, Scott,” Stiles sighed, leaning against the wall. “She’s okay right now— they gave her pain meds— but… it doesn’t sound good.”

“What do you mean by ‘doesn’t sound good?’” Scott asked, his voice heavy with worry.

“Like, she’s probably gonna need surgery,” Stiles said, his voice low. “The bone fractured pretty badly. Her ankles are already under so much strain, they think there was probably already too much stress on them, and the bone kind of shattered when she fell.”

“Jesus,” Scott muttered, his tone grave.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, exhaling sharply.

“How long will that take to recover from?”

“It has to stay immobile for a couple weeks after surgery,” Stiles told his friend, regurgitating what the doctor had told him. “And then six to eight weeks in a boot, and then she would probably need PT, I’m assuming, before doing any kind of pointe work again—”

“So four or five months,” Scott confirmed. Stiles nodded, forgetting his best friend couldn’t see him.

“She could easily be out for the rest of the season.”

There was silence on the other line for a moment. “She’s not going to handle that well,” Scott finally concluded.

Stiles sighed again. “No. She’s not.”

Stiles heard rustling sheets from the room behind him, and turning towards the doorway, he saw Lydia shifting in her bed, sitting up. Her expression was still a little dazed, and the nurse next to her smiled kindly as she helped adjust her ankle. The doctor was back in the room, too, he noticed, talking to Lydia as he wrote on his clipboard.

“Hey, the doctor’s back,” Stiles said urgently to Scott, his eyes still locked on his girlfriend. “I have to go talk with them again.”

“Sure,” Scott said, voice understanding. “Let me know when you know more, okay? Keep us updated.”

“Will do,” Stiles replied. “Thanks, Scotty.”

Stiles hung up the phone, shoving it in his pocket as he walked back into the hospital room. His eyes immediately met Lydia’s, and he took her hand comfortingly as the doctor regarded them.

“So, Miss Martin,” the doctor began. “I’m going to have one of our surgeons come down to look at you, just to get another opinion, but I think you’re going to need to have surgery to repair that ankle.”

Lydia took a shaky intake of breath, her grip on Stiles’s hand vice-like. “Okay,” she responded, voice quieter than usual. “And what does that entail? What are the risks, what will recovery be like?”

“It’s a pretty standard procedure,” the doctor told her. “You’ll stay overnight just to monitor it, but then you’re free to go home. Immobile cast for four to six weeks, then a boot cast for six to eight. After that it depends on the progress of the recovery.”

Lydia nodded her head slowly. “I’m a dancer,” she told the doctor, her eyes still so full of fear. “Will I get full mobility back?”

“With physical therapy, it’s possible,” the doctor told her. “I can’t make any promises. It’s pretty likely you’ll never get full dexterity back, but you should be able to dance again, if everything goes smoothly. You’re with Boston Ballet?”

“Yeah,” Stiles told the doctor when Lydia didn’t respond. Her eyes were a little empty looking, her line of sight fixed on the floor across the room. Stiles could practically feel her heart pounding just from running his hand over her back.

“I’ve worked with a lot of their dancers before,” the doctor told Lydia. She looked up and met his eyes, the fear in hers almost breaking Stiles’s heart. “We have some of the best surgeons in the world here. You’re in good hands, okay?”

“Okay,” Lydia said, voice trembling, and Stiles sat down next to her on the bed as the doctor turned away, conversing with the nurse.

“Hey, Lydia,” he said, tugging her into his chest and smoothing a hand down her arm. “Look at me, Lyds, okay?”

She turned her head to face him, her body still pressed against his chest, her eyes wide. “What if it goes wrong, Stiles?” she whispered. He could already tell she was starting to spiral. “What if I can’t dance anymore?”

“That’s not gonna happen, Lyds,” he assured her. “It’s going to go fine, and in a couple months you’ll be back right where you were.”

“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, her voice trembling, as she buried her head into his neck. He cradled the back of her head, holding her close and comforting her as best he could. That was all he could really do here.

“I know this is terrifying,” he assured her. “But you have a broken ankle. We have to fix that. And after that we can deal with anything else. Okay? We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“I’m so scared,” she admitted, and he could feel her tears on his neck. He couldn’t even imagine how she was feeling. He was terrified of anything going wrong, and he wasn’t even the one injured here. He could hardly fathom how it must be affecting Lydia— in the blink of an eye, her whole world had flipped upside down, and now, her entire future, everything she had ever known was in jeopardy. If she couldn’t dance again… Stiles didn’t even want to imagine the fallout of _that._

“I know,” he whispered back. “I’m scared too. But, hey, listen—” she pulled back a little, meeting his eyes again. “You’re the strongest person I know, okay? You’re going to get through this, no matter what happens. And I’ll be right here with you.”

“Okay,” she said, voice breaking, and he could see unshed tears in her eyes, her expression still overwhelmed and so, so afraid.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he promised her again, squeezing her tightly. All he could do was hope it would be.

***

“I didn’t even know this building _had_ an elevator,” Stiles mused, pushing Lydia’s wheelchair out of said elevator to their hall. She nodded silently, her eyes fixed on their apartment door at the end of the hall. It was cracked open, and she could see movement inside their supposed-to-be-deserted home.

“Stiles,” she said, her voice only _slightly_ accusatory. “Why is our apartment door open?”

“What?” he responded, voice too high to be casual. “It doesn’t— I don’t see anything.”

Then she heard their dog barking, and that confirmed her suspicions. Finn _never_ barked if he was on his own.

“The door is _clearly_ open, and I can hear the dog,” she told him, disbelief evident in her voice. Stiles scoffed dramatically, and she rolled her eyes. “Did you let Scott and Allison into our apartment again?”

“Of course not,” he insisted. “They don’t need to be let in. They have a key.” He paused. “Malia and Kira, on the other hand…”

Lydia laughed, and she knew he was doing this on purpose— distracting her, making her laugh, keeping her mind occupied, because he’d been doing it since they left the hospital this morning. The surgery had gone perfectly, the doctors had said, and she had been cleared to go home a couple hours ago, but the reality of not being able to dance for a considerable time was beginning to set in. Lydia was glad that without even saying anything, Stiles knew to try to keep her thoughts elsewhere.

Sure enough, Kira, Malia, Scott, and Allison were all in their apartment when they opened the door. “Lydia!” Allison immediately cried, rushing to her best friend and hugging her before her wheelchair was even fully in the room. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” Lydia answered truthfully, as Stiles pushed her over to the couch. She could see Scott and Kira in the kitchen, working on something. Allison and Stiles helped her stand from the wheelchair, lowering her onto the couch and propping her foot on a pillow on the coffee table. Within seconds, Finn was up on the couch next to her, his paws on her shoulder and his tongue warm on her cheek.

“Hi, baby,” she said, scratching the dog’s head, as he jumped off her shoulders and laid down across her and Stiles’s laps, his head pressed up against Lydia’s stomach.

“We made you muffins,” Scott said, emerging from the kitchen with Kira behind him, carrying a tray with steaming muffins on it. Malia grabbed one on their way over to the sitting area, dodging Kira’s reprimanding slap to the wrist.

“This _almost_ makes up for you breaking into our apartment,” Lydia replied, smiling at her friends. Allison and Stiles sat on either side of her on the couch, Stiles still holding her hand. Lydia grinned at him affectionately as he laced their fingers together; she loved nothing more than the warmth of his palm, his large hand swallowing hers whole. It was comforting and familiar, and immediately put her at ease.

“We didn’t _break in,”_ Allison insisted, folding her arms over her chest. The lights from above caught on her engagement ring, sparkling on her fourth finger. “We do have a key.”

“They assisted _us_ in breaking in,” Malia added, from the other side of Allison. At that, Allison just shrugged in acceptance.

“We have the _worst_ next-door neighbors,” Lydia joked, turning to Stiles. He smiled at her widely, his eyes shining with adoration.

“Technically, we’re across-the-hall neighbors,” Scott amended, grabbing a muffin off the tray.

“And you wonder why we live in the building next door,” Kira added, laughing. Malia nodded in agreement.

“You two spend more time here than you do in your apartment,” Stiles said. “I’m pretty sure Kira has a stash of her yogurt in our fridge.”

Kira nodded in confirmation, her mouth full of muffin. “But I make you guys dinner every Wednesday,” she said, though her words were a little jumbled.

“If you really wanted to avoid us, you’d follow Isaac to the other side of the city,” Scott said, his tone of voice conveying that even now, after a year and a half, he was still a little wounded. Allison rolled her eyes at her fiancé, smacking his chest gently.

“Isaac moved to Cambridge because that’s where he, Danny, and Boyd work,” she reminded him, listing off Isaac’s roommates. “And it’s _maybe_ a ten minute ride on the T.”

Lydia just sat as her friends continued to chat and laugh, trying to ignore the dull ache in her ankle and the heavy weight of the cast on her lower leg. The pain meds they’d given her were starting to wear off a little, and she was becoming acutely aware of how little mobility she had at the moment. She tried to focus on anything else, shut out the fears that she somehow wouldn’t recover, squeezing Stiles’s hand to remind herself that he was here. He looked over her, concern in his whiskey eyes, his expression silently asking if she was okay, as to not draw attention to her distress in front of their friends. She nodded slightly, assuring him that she was alright, and he pulled her a little closer, kissing the side of her head briefly. Their friends continued chatting, oblivious, and Lydia was so grateful for the man sitting next to her and his ability to know exactly what she needed to say without her ever uttering a word.

An hour later, everyone cleared out— Kira had homework for her grad program, as did Scott for vet school, and their significant others followed them home, Finn hopping off their laps and trailing the guests to the door, before curling up in the middle of the living room. Soon it was just Stiles and Lydia sitting on the couch, hands still laced together.

With the chatter of their friends no longer available to distract her, her fears came back, dancing on the edge of her thoughts and taunting her. Stiles could sense her shift in mood, because he immediately cupped one hand to her cheek, turning her head gently to meet his eyes.

“Hey, Lyds,” he said, eyes soft, voice even softer. “It’s okay, remember. The surgery went fine. The doctor said you’re on track for a perfect recovery and you’ll be back dancing before the end of the season. Okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered back, trying to believe his words. But still, even though she knew he was right, even though she wanted to believe him— nothing could push that nagging fear from her mind, the panicky thought that she was never going to be able to dance again. _And you can forget about that promotion,_ her brain cut in. _They said you’d be a soloist if the rest of the season went well. And this is definitely not going well._

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to get the stupid voices out of her mind, shaking her head ever so slightly. She felt Stiles’s hand rubbing soothingly down her back, his lips brush against her forehead, and immediately, some of the tension released from her body. She opened her eyes and met his, and _god_ — they’d been dating for more than two years, and the amount of emotion Stiles looked at her with still managed to take her breath away.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he insisted again. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

She let him pull her into his chest, let him run his hand up and down her back, the other woven through her hair, as his words from earlier rang in her head. _On track for a perfect recovery._

Nothing in this world was perfect. Her broken ankle was proof enough of that.

***

Lydia was surprised when she woke up to find Stiles’s arm still draped over her.

She blinked slowly, staring at the sleeping form of her boyfriend sprawled out in their bed. The clock on the bedside table blinked 8:15— shouldn’t he be up by now, getting ready for work?

“Stiles,” she whispered, nudging his shoulder. His face scrunched up, and he let out a disgruntled groan, his eyes staying shut. _“Stiles.”_

“Whazzit?” he mumbled, opening one eye and peering at Lydia blearily. “Whazzup?”

“Don’t you have to be up for work?” she said, voice hushed, and he frowned, closing his eyes again.

“No, it’s Monday,” he said, yawning. “I have today off.”

“Oh,” she said, blinking. Monday— that was supposed to be her day off too. Her schedule was beginning to lose its grip on her, dismantled by the three weeks she’d been off. Sitting at home on the couch all the time was blurring the days together, making her forget what day it was in the first place.

She tried not to dwell on that thought, that she’d been away from dance so long that her internal schedule was disintegrating before her very eyes.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I thought it was a different day.”

“S’okay,” he murmured again, voice still full of sleep. He pulled her closer, the arm slung over her waist snaking around her and pulling her into his chest. He burrowed his head in her hair, inhaling deeply. Lydia almost laughed, allowing him to tug her body into his, careful to keep her bad leg away from him— the last thing she needed was to break _his_ ankle with her enormous cast. Finn lifted his head from his crossed paws and whined at the movement of their legs; they must have disturbed his customary place at the end of their bed.

 _“Stiles,”_ she whispered, trying not to laugh as he practically smothered her. God, he was _so_ cuddly when he was sleepy. He just hummed into her skin, wrapping his arms around her even more. She gave in, snuggling into his chest, her hands running over the broad muscles of his back. A year or so later, Lydia had finally gotten used to his much-more toned physique, thanks to the Police Academy and the physical training required for being a cop. His shoulders were broader, arms _much_ more muscular, abs defined— sometimes, she’d look at pictures of the lanky beanpole she’d fallen in love with and hardly recognize the man he was today. _Not_ that she was complaining.

“Ugh,” Stiles groaned, burrowing his face farther into her neck. “I can feel you objectifying me right now.”

“Your back muscles are very nice,” she responded, slipping her hands under his t-shirt and raking her nails over the smooth skin and toned muscle.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Stiles told her, his voice muffled, as his face was still buried in her neck. “Once I can move up from a cop to a detective, I’m never doing a push-up again.”

She almost laughed. “You know I will.” She pressed a kiss into his collarbone, letting her lips linger there, as she ran her hands up farther, resting on his shoulders. She tangled her uninjured leg with both of his, pulling her body closer to his, and Stiles groaned quietly into her neck, his breath hot on her skin.

“Jesus, Lydia,” he responded, voice hoarse. “We just woke up.” He seemed unfazed by his own excuse, however, because his hands were already underneath her shirt, splaying across her whole back, his touch warm and heavy. He pulled her in tighter to him, their bodies pressed together, and Stiles’s lips on her neck were intoxicating, sending shivers down her spine.

“Nope, no way,” Lydia said, drawing back from him. “I am not having sex with you with the dog in the room.”

“Finn, get out of here,” Stiles mumbled, hands curling around her sides, thumbs stroking her ribs, while pressing his lips to her exposed collarbone. He half-heartedly kicked his foot forward, moving the sheets under the dog and effectively making Finn jump off the end of the bed, loping into the hallway. In his haste, however, he forgot about her broken ankle and caught her cast with his kick.

“Ah,” Lydia gasped, pain blossoming in her ankle at the sharp contact from Stiles’s foot. Immediately he tensed, his hands freezing on her midriff.

“Shit,” he murmured, sitting up and pulling back the blankets on their bed, just to check her ankle.  “Jesus, Lyds, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she responded weakly, blinking back tears. The pain was subsiding, but the moment was ruined— the cast on her ankle was a solid reminder of why she was laying in bed with her boyfriend this morning and not dancing.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, running a hand over his scruffy chin. He looked away from her cast, meeting her eyes, and he looked so guilty that she couldn’t help reaching out to cup his cheek, smiling softly at him. He sighed, resting his head in her hand, before leaning in and kissing her sweetly.

“Do you want breakfast?” Stiles asked, his nose still brushing hers. Lydia nodded decisively, her fingers weaving into his hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’ll make pancakes,” he said, kissing her nose lightly, before clambering out of bed. Lydia watched him walk to the door, eyes trained on his plaid pajama pants and the way his t-shirt clung to his shoulders. “Go cheer your mom up, bud,” Stiles said, his gaze fixed on something in the hall, and two seconds later Finn was back on their bed, his soft head nuzzling up against Lydia’s chest.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said softly, scratching behind his ears absentmindedly. _Don’t think about it,_ she instructed herself, focusing instead on fixing Finn’s collar, embroidered with X-Wings. _Don’t think about it._

Even three weeks after the accident, not thinking about it was already proving much harder than anticipated.

Lydia sighed, finally steeling herself to get up from the bed. Grabbing her crutches, propped up against the bedside table, she swung her cast off the side of the bed before gently rising to her feet. Finn followed dutifully behind her as she hobbled into the kitchen.

“Yeah, that would be great,” Stiles said as she entered the tiny room, his back turned to her, one hand on the bowl in front of him and one hand holding his phone to his ear. “That’s perfect. Thanks, Adelaide.”

“What was that?” Lydia asked, and Stiles jumped, turning to face her. From the look on his face, she could _immediately_ tell it had something to do with her.

“Nothing,” he insisted, glancing at the pancakes in the skillet in front of him. Lydia quirked an eyebrow at him in disbelief— she could always tell when he was lying.

“What did Adelaide want?” Lydia pressed, maneuvering her crutches and herself so that she was facing Stiles. He sighed, his expression dejected.

“You don’t want to know, Lydia, trust me,” he told her. That, of course, only made her more frustrated.

 _“Tell_ me, Stiles,” she demanded, playful smirk no longer present. “What was it?”

He sighed, defeat encompassing his features. “They’re having Adelaide dance the Sugar Plum Fairy on the nights you were supposed to,” he told her, and Lydia froze up, momentarily. “And she wanted to know if I wanted her to buy the tickets Allison, Scott and I have for next Wednesday off of me.”

“Oh,” she said, voice small, and she knew instantly she should have listened to Stiles and let it go. It struck her then— as much as it sucked to not be able to dance, to be out of commission and kept away from the thing she loved, it hadn’t really occurred to her yet that the rest of the company kept going. Obviously, she knew that, but it didn’t sink in until the moment she heard Stiles say Adelaide was replacing her for the Grand Pas. People still had tickets to _The Nutcracker,_ and the Opera House would fill up every night. The company would go on, and someone else would be dancing her parts— Dew Drop, the Snow Queen, the few precious nights she got to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy… some other dancer would be taking her place.

“Hey,” Stiles said, voice impossibly soft, and he put his phone down on the counter before moving towards her and pulling her into his arms. One of his hands found the back of her head, tugging it into his chest and stroking her hair. She melted into his touch, reveling in the warmth and comfort of being practically swallowed by Stiles’s body. His other arm circled her waist, holding her steady and rendering her crutches useless, and he rested his cheek on the top of her head, still absentmindedly stroking her strawberry blonde waves.

“The pancakes,” she reminded him, her eyes drifting to the frying pan. He just shook his head slightly, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

“Nah. You’re more important.”

She shuddered in his arms, trying to rid herself of the horrible, useless feeling seeping through her entire body, but she found that she couldn’t. Boston Ballet went on without her, and she was stuck here, with a broken ankle, frozen in place and forgotten.

Stiles tightened his arms around her, kissing her hair again, and it helped her relax a little, but not enough.

***

Stiles was _exhausted_ when he finally made it back to their apartment.

Work had been long and tedious, the freezing, early December winds outside not helping at all. Stiles couldn't _wait_ until he was done doing his time as a cop and could move up to being a detective. Solving puzzles, looking for clues, figuring it out— that’s what he _really_ wanted to do. Today had been longer than most, though. Knowing Lydia was home alone, most likely sinking deeper into the hopeless, morose mood she’d been in ever since she’d broken her ankle a month ago— he’d been worrying about her all day, the minutes ticking by slower than usual as the clock inched towards the time he got to go back home to her.

He was expecting to find her watching TV, or taking a nap, or… something _other_ than how he actually found her. When Stiles walked through the door, his jaw almost hit the floor, because Lydia was sitting on the sofa, wearing one of his flannels and not much else.

“Um,” Stiles said, a little slack jawed as he dropped his keys on the counter, shrugging off his jacket before moving closer to the couch. “Hello,” he said to his girlfriend, who blinked up at him innocently.

“Hi,” Lydia responded, her voice low, but Stiles could see something was wrong— there was something behind her eyes, something almost like panic.

“What’s going on?” he asked, mouth a little dry, because she was giving him that _look,_ pursing her lips just so, and he _knew_ he was in trouble.

“I need you to distract me,” she said frankly, standing up and shifting all her weight to her one good foot. Stiles walked closer to her, still horribly confused, and Lydia grabbed the front of his shirt, unceremoniously tugging him onto the couch with her. Before he could react, she was kissing him desperately, and Stiles reacted automatically, snaking his hands around her and kissing her back.

“Lydia,” he panted, pulling away from her briefly, his hands still tight around her waist. “What are you—”

“Don’t,” Lydia insisted, pressing her forehead against his, straddling his legs. “Just— please, Stiles. Just distract me.”

Stiles opened his mouth again to speak, but Lydia was kissing him again, her hands working at the buttons of his uniform shirt, her body pressing into his. His hands slipped under the hem of the flannel she had on, and he was reminded of just how little clothing she was wearing— his fingers brushed the lace of her panties, his palms splaying across her bare back. Lydia sighed into his mouth, her teeth catching on his bottom lip, but something about this still felt _off._

“Lydia,” he whispered, pulling away again. She ignored him, peppering his jawline with kisses, her breath hot on his cheek. His hands were still firm around her body, but he could feel the tension in her back, feel her muscles tremble under his touch.

“Lyds, you’re shaking,” he insisted, taking one of his hands and resting it on her cheek, guiding her face towards him. She finally met his eyes, and he could see it again— that overwhelmed, lost look he had noticed earlier. “What’s wrong?” he asked her, voice soft and slightly desperate. “Why do you need me to distract you?”

Lydia blinked, her body trembling under his hands again. “I was talking with Lauren earlier and it’s just hitting me that this isn’t temporary,” she said, her words coming out in a rush. “I’m out for the rest of the season. And I just— I need to feel something else.” Her eyes were locked on his, begging. _“Please._ Make me feel something else.”

His heart broke at the lost, desperate sound of her voice, and he nodded, leaning into her and kissing her again. He just wanted her to feel better. Normal. _Not_ like this. Not helpless and so, so afraid.

Lydia’s hands ran through his hair, her chest pressed to his as she leaned into him, their bodies molded together. Her mouth was hot on his, and he pulled away to press kisses down her neck, his lips trailing down to her sternum, where the flannel she wore was already unbuttoned dangerously low. Lydia dropped her head onto his shoulder, sighing into him, and Stiles tightened his hands on her waist— but she shuddered again, slightly. He hesitated, and he could feel her tears on his shoulder, hot and wet through his shirt.

“Lyds,” he said again, voice soft, pulling away from her and loosening his arms around her, his palm sliding up and down her back. “Babe, look at me.”

Lydia didn’t move, her head still on his shoulder, but he could feel her body shake as she cried into him. “Hey,” he said, voice soft, threading a hand through her hair, holding her close to him. “Lydia, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she whispered, and Stiles had to keep himself from sighing audibly, because she was clearly the _farthest_ thing from okay. “I’m fine,” she said, meeting his eyes, hers shining with tears. “Please, Stiles, just—”

“No, Lydia,” he told her gently. “You’re not fine.” She paused at his words, her eyes wide and desperate, and it broke Stiles’s heart to tell her no. But he could see how overwhelmed she was, how scared and confused and just… _lost._ And he wanted to fix that, but not like this. Not just with a distraction.

“C’mere,” Stiles murmured, guiding her leg over his so that she sat in his lap, pulling her body into his chest. She gave into his touch, folding into his arms and burying her head in the crook of his neck, her body shaking with sobs. He just held her, gently stroking her hair as she cried, hoping that was enough. God, he felt so _lost_ here. All he wanted was to help Lydia, make her feel better than this, but he had no idea how. He felt like he was grasping at straws, guessing and hoping for the best. Hoping somehow, he could ease her pain.

“It’s okay, Lyds,” he promised, rubbing her back with his other hand, trying to keep his tone of voice soothing, gentle. “You’re gonna get through this, okay? I know you will.”

Stiles didn’t know how much time passed while they sat there, Lydia tucked into his chest, his arms still circled around her. Finn wandered into the living room, eyeing his two humans curiously before flopping down on the carpet, his attention turning to his plush Darth Vader toy. Gradually, Lydia’s cries tapered off, until she was sitting up, sniffling, her eyes red as she met his gaze.

“You okay?” he asked lamely, already regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. Of _course_ she wasn’t okay. That much was clear to him. But he still didn’t know exactly how to handle this, how to make her hurt less, so he just waited for her answer.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully, glancing down, body shuddering. Stiles could feel his heart ache, seeing her look so sad and lost.

“Sorry,” she said quietly, blinking, shaking her head ever so slightly. Stiles frowned, about to open his mouth to tell her not to apologize, but she continued talking, cutting him off.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she told him, looking away, unable to meet his gaze.

“Okay,” he said, one hand still cupping the back of her neck. “Do you want me to come with you? I’ll wash your hair,” he offered, voice low. She smiled slightly at that, meeting his eyes again and nodding.

Lydia reached for her crutches, but Stiles shook his head, sliding one arm under her thighs and scooping her up into his arms. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he told her, and her eyes softened a little bit, her hands looping around his neck. Lydia weighed barely anything, but a year ago, he mused, he probably would have still collapsed if he’d tried this. That was the _one_ upside of the hellish workout regime he’d had to go through for police academy.

Stiles carefully lowered her onto the closed toilet in the bathroom, helping her wrap up her cast in a plastic bag before flicking on the water. She undid the buttons of her flannel slowly as he stripped out of his work clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor with Lydia’s discarded shirt. Gently, he lifted her by the waist, helping her over the lip of the tub before clambering in himself, tugging the curtain closed behind her.

“Lean on me,” Stiles offered when Lydia braced her hand against the shower wall to balance. She met his eyes, that helpless, haunted look in hers fainter, but still glaringly present. Stiles grabbed the shampoo from the shelf as she slid her hands up his shoulders, working the soap into a lather before smoothing it through her hair.

Lydia sighed as his fingers massaged her scalp, the sweet scent of her shampoo intoxicating. He carefully walked her backwards, and she tipped her head into the spray of water, letting him chase the soap out of her hair with his hands. He smoothed conditioner through her hair before offering her the soapy loofah, holding her steady as she scrubbed her body clean. She met his eyes again when she had rinsed off all the soap, and her expression was a little less lost as she looped her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his and hugging him tightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his wet skin, and Stiles’s arms immediately circled around her, completely supporting her weight.

“Of course,” he told her, voice soft. “Anything, Lydia, okay? Anything you need.”

They just stood there, the warm spray of water washing over their entwined bodies, and Stiles could feel Lydia’s heartbeat reverberating against his skin as her chest rose and fell against his with her slow, steady breaths. His palms spanned her whole back again, but the muscles were more relaxed, and she didn’t tremble under his touch anymore. He tilted his head to meet her eyes, and her expression was softer, less tortured, her eyes a little less lost. She still wasn’t okay, but she was getting there. He hoped.

***

Lydia loved her boyfriend, she swore— but sometimes, his Christmas spirit could be just a _bit_ excessive. 

“Stiles!” Lydia called through their apartment, not bothering to hide the aggravation in her tone. “Why are there _bells_ on Finn’s collar?”

Stiles didn’t answer; instead, Finn raced by again excitedly, jingling like he was one of Santa’s reindeer.

“Because it’s Christmas!” Stiles finally responded, sticking his head out of their bedroom. His sweater was in his hand instead of on his body, and he was dressed in just his khakis and a white t-shirt. She rolled her eyes at her boyfriend, finishing wrapping up the trifle they were supposed to bring.

“Get dressed,” she told him, reaching for her crutches. “We have to leave in a minute.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, disappearing back into their room. Lydia hobbled over to Finn, intent on taking the ridiculously loud bells off his collar, but Stiles knew her too well.

“Don’t even _think_ of taking his bells off!” Stiles exclaimed, appearing in the hall again, his sweater now on.

Lydia paused, her fingers frozen on Finn’s collar, because god damn him, he was wearing that sweater that she _loved._

“What?” he asked, all wide-eyed and innocent looking, like he didn’t know _exactly_ what he was doing.

“Why are you wearing that sweater?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, looking taken aback as he walked into the kitchen. Finn jumped up at his ankles, tail wagging ferociously, but Stiles ignored him, eyes still fixed on Lydia. “You love this sweater.”

“Yeah,” she responded, pouting. “I love it more when it’s _off_ of you.”

He smiled wickedly, confirming her suspicions that he _definitely_ picked it out on purpose. “Lydia Martin, you are insatiable,” he responded, moving behind her to grab something from the counter.

“You’re really hot,” she defended, smirking prettily at him in that way that she _knew_ turned him on. If he was going to play dirty, she was too.

Before she could say anything else, Stiles was behind her, pulling her into his arms and flush up against him. His hands rested on her hips, tugging her impossibly closer to him, his neck bowed and his lips brushing over her neck.

“You’re being mean,” he responded, and she hummed in agreement, leaning back into his touch. Her eye caught the clock, which blinked back 7:39— they were running late already, and Allison would come looking for them if they didn’t show up soon.

“We have to go,” she sighed, turning in his arms to face him. He pouted at her, and she smiled, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging his lips down to her level so she could kiss him. She was even shorter than usual in her flat shoes— wearing heels with a cast wasn’t exactly an option.

He rested his forehead against hers, nudging her nose with his. “Do we really?” he double checked, chasing after her lips. Lydia smiled into his kiss, wishing they _could_ just stay here.

“If we don’t head over there soon, Allison _will_ come looking for us,” she said into his lips, kissing him again. He sighed dejectedly, pulling away from her, disgruntled. “You’re the one who gave Scott a key,” she reminded him, running her hands up his torso.

“Come on,” she said, resting one hand on his chest while she grabbed her crutches with the other hand; balancing on her one good foot, she rearranged her crutches to support herself, then grabbed her purse. “And don’t forget the trifle.”

“Come on, Finn,” Stiles called, the dog running over from the living room, where he had been intently sniffing the Christmas tree. Stiles stepped around Lydia, grabbing the apartment door for her, and following her across the hall.

“Hey, guys!” Allison said as soon as they stepped into their friend’s apartment, their host looking festive as ever in a flowy red dress. She immediately rushed over, giving Lydia a hug while minding her crutches.

“Why’s your dog jingling?” Isaac asked, his eyebrows raised in amusement as he lowered his champagne flute. Lydia sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Ask Stiles,” she said, moving on to hug Scott hello. “Babe, put the trifle in the kitchen, okay?”

“As you wish,” Stiles responded, breezing past her and dropping a hurried kiss on her cheek in his rush.

“Come sit,” Allison said, beckoning Lydia over to the couch. “I’ll get you a drink.”

Lydia joined Kira and Malia on the couch, nodding hello to some of Allison’s friends from work as well as Finn sat happily next to her feet. Over the years, their Christmas parties had expanded exponentially— probably around thirty people were here now, a mix of everyone’s friends from work or grad school or anywhere else, though the obscene amount of frozen appetizers and Christmas decorations remained. Lydia was partially convinced that all of the normal decor in Scott and Allison’s apartment had been replaced with Christmas things: the throw pillows had Santas on them, the side tables were decorated with ornaments and reindeer, and the only lights on in the entire apartment were strings and _strings_ of Christmas lights. The only thing from their normal decor that wasn’t touched was the enormous wolf painting hanging behind the couch— Lydia didn’t understand it, but Scott and Allison both _loved_ it.

“Here,” Allison said, dropping onto the couch next to Lydia and handing her a glass of champagne. “So how have you been?”

Lydia forced a smile, trying to look convincing when she responded with “Good.” But truthfully— she had been okay, but not the best. Having no mobility in her ankle was frustrating and boring. Sitting on the couch and resting every day when she was used to being active and dancing at all hours was taking its toll on her. She’d run out of Netflix shows to binge, and she couldn’t watch live television without somehow seeing a commercial for _The Nutcracker,_ and that _never_ failed to make her feel worse. Especially since she was _in_ a lot of that footage— watching herself dance onstage was a sharp blow to the stomach, hitting home the reality that the company was still going without her.

She honestly thought the only thing keeping her sane was Stiles. If it weren’t for him, she would have probably lost her mind weeks ago.

Lydia changed the subject as soon as possible, chatting with Kira about her grad school program and asking Allison about work. “Still saving all the marine animals?” Kira asked Allison, referring to the environmental science and protection program she was working with.

“You know my motto,” Allison supplied. “We protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

Lydia nodded in agreement, making the mistake of glancing to Allison’s side. On the far end table was one of the Boston Ballet nutcrackers they sold at the merchandise stand during the show— it had been a jokey gift from her to Allison _years_ ago, back in college when they had first moved in together. Seeing it now sent a cold shiver down Lydia’s spine, dread washing over her as she was forced to remember that there was a Nutcracker show going on right now; a show that she was not a part of.

“How are wedding plans coming?” Lydia asked, forcing herself to look away from the dumb decoration and watching Allison’s face light up— it was a selfish question, because she desperately needed something to distract herself before she began spiraling. Allison had a knowing look in her eye that conveyed she knew what Lydia was doing, and that she didn’t mind in the slightest. Sometimes Lydia couldn’t believe how wonderful her best friend was. She listened intently, losing herself in discussion of flowers and venues and the looming task of finding a dress, trying to push the stupid wooden decoration behind them from her mind.

 _“Scott!”_ Stiles suddenly exclaimed, his voice echoing through the apartment, and the girls turned to look at Lydia. She just rolled her eyes as Stiles continued, limbs flailing, oblivious to the looks he was drawing. “Dude, it’s the _last episode!”_

“Star Wars,” Lydia said dismissively, shaking her head. Malia laughed. “He’s already seen the new one six times.”

“You’re joking,” Kira said, expression incredulous. “It’s been out for less than a week! Malia and I have only seen it once.”

“That’s because I refused to go another time with her,” Malia interjected, leaning into Kira, who rolled her eyes.

Lydia just smiled at her friends. “I think Stiles would break up with me if I joked about Star Wars.”

“So how many times have _you_ seen it?” Malia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Three.” She shrugged. “I thought it was good.”

“Finn, attack your uncle Scott,” Stiles demanded, causing the dog to jump up from his place next to Lydia’s foot, bouncing over to Scott and Stiles, bells on his collar still jingling. “He refuses to watch the movies with your namesake in them.”

“Stiles!” Lydia reprimanded, though she couldn’t contain her laughter. Scott seemed unfazed, though, kneeling to the floor and letting the puppy tackle him.

Lydia opened her mouth to say something else, when suddenly, the music in the room changed.

Stiles immediately met her gaze, eyes wide and panicked, as Lydia’s blood turned to ice, her whole body freezing up. From the speaker system came a slow, graceful introduction of harps that she knew better than any other piece of music, quickly followed by the crescendo of violins as _Pas de Deux Intrada_ began to play throughout the room.

“Shit,” Allison hissed, jumping up and dashing over to her phone, quickly hitting skip song. Immediately the melodic overture was gone, replaced by the jarring opening tune of Jingle Bell Rock.

“I’m sorry, Lydia,” she whispered, turning to her best friend with wide eyes. “I thought I took it off after last year…”

Allison trailed off, but Lydia couldn’t respond. She sat frozen on the couch, trapped in her own nightmarish thoughts, because she _knew_ why that song was on the playlist. Last year at the Christmas party had been her second Nutcracker as a second soloist, and the second Nutcracker season where she got to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy. Her friends had been ridiculously proud of her, cheering her on as she half-stepped through the dance in the middle of the living room, too drunk on champagne and laughter with both ankles perfectly intact. But now she was stuck on the couch, unable to dance or move or do _anything,_ because the force of her heavy plaster cast was weighing her down and keeping her stuck. Hearing the song reminded her how she was supposed to dance that part last Wednesday. How she was supposed to dance that part _this_ Wednesday. But instead she was pinned to a couch, her ankle still shattered and her dreams just as broken. Since she was little she had dreamed of dancing that part with a theater full of people watching her and clapping for her. Now all the song did was serve as a harsh reminder that she may never get to dance it again.

Her breath was becoming shallow, her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her, but looking anywhere, _anywhere_ other than the cast on her foot. She didn’t even register that Stiles had sat down next to her until she felt his hands on her arms.

“Hey, Lydia, breathe,” he told her, voice calm and sure. “Look at me, Lyds, alright?”

She turned to look at him, meeting his eyes reluctantly. His were full of concern, and she could see that he knew how afraid she was right then.

“You’re okay,” he assured her, one hand still running up and down her arm. “It’s gonna be fine, Lydia, alright? Stay with me. You’re here and you’re okay.”

Only the sheer amount of emotion in his eyes was enough to pull her from her spiral.

“Sorry,” she whispered, glancing down. He shook his head, cupping her cheek in his hand, softly, and kissing her quickly.

“Don’t apologize,” he insisted, eyes still locked on hers. “I just wanted you to know you’re okay. I’m here with you. Don’t spiral, alright? We’re gonna figure it out.”

“I know,” she responded, voice soft, still a little too weak. But the way Stiles was looking at her gave her more strength, forced her to blink and recoup and shove down her fears. He was here, and he was going to make sure she was alright.

“I love you,” she told him, barely a whisper, but he still heard her. His little smile at her words was devastatingly beautiful, warming her heart and helping shed the layer of panic that had overtaken her moments earlier.

“I love you too,” he told her back, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. He dropped his hand from her face, instead winding their fingers together, resting their clasped hands on her lap. Finn padded over hesitantly, laying down at his parents’ feet and regarding them with those adorable puppy-dog eyes.

Stiles spent the rest of the party glued to her side— whether they were chatting with Isaac and his roommates Boyd and Danny in the kitchen, or watching people fawn over Finn from the couch in the living room, Stiles’s hand didn’t drop hers all night. After midnight they journeyed back across the hall, Stiles carrying an exhausted sleeping Finn in his arms like a baby, the puppy snoring on his shoulder. Lydia felt better, the impending sense of dread in her stomach lifted partially by alcohol and food and the company of good friends, but _Pas de Deux Intrada_ still was trapped in her mind, taunting her cruelly with its beautiful, calming melody. She sat on the edge of their bed in an almost trance, allowing Stiles to help her into one of his old t-shirts she had claimed as her pajamas. He kissed the side of her head and brushed out her hair for her, his fingers smoothing out her messy curls.

“C’mere, Lyds,” he finally beckoned, pulling the blankets down and her into his arms. Lydia allowed him to tug her up against his chest, absentmindedly noting how warm and solid he was, as Finn hopped up and took his customary spot on top of their quilt at their feet.

“Goodnight,” Stiles whispered to her, nosing her forehead gently and kissing the crown of her head, his arms secure around her. She instinctually burrowed into his arms, resting her head underneath his chin, trying to shake this feeling and go to sleep.

No matter how hard she tried, though— something had happened when she’d heard her favorite piece of ballet music again. Her heart felt raw, her chest ached, and she found, even in the warm embrace of Stiles’s arms, that she couldn’t shed the feeling of grief and dread that had sunk in when she’d heard the opening chords of that song.

She tried to sleep well, but she awoke fitfully over and over, every time ripped from harsh dreams of broken ankles and struggling dance careers.

***

Regardless of what people said about them having separation anxiety— Stiles was really glad that he lived across the hall from Scott.

It made it abundantly easy for his best friend to come over when he needed him. Like tonight, for example— he didn’t have to put the dog in his crate, or put on a coat, or anything— he just had to text Scott, and a second later his best friend was there.

The girls were out tonight— after the Christmas party a few days ago, Allison had decided to try to cheer Lydia up by going out on a last minute Christmas shopping trip. Malia and Kira had gone too, of course, promising that they would distract her from the cast on her leg.

“Hey,” Scott said, pushing the door to their apartment open a moment later, immediately sinking down next to Stiles on the couch.

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles said, his voice sounding so tired. Finn came racing out of the kitchen, tail wagging as he greeted their new guest.

“Hi, buddy,” Scott said, enthusiastically petting the dog. Finn hopped up onto the couch, sprawling out across their laps, quivering with excitement.

“So what’s up?” Scott asked. “You sound exhausted.”

“I am,” Stiles admitted, dropping his head backwards on the cushions. “Work itself is tiring, but the whole— god, I’m just so stressed out about Lydia.”

Scott nodded sympathetically. “Allison still feels awful for the thing with the song at the Christmas party,” he said. Stiles shook his head, waving his friend off.

“No, no. That was an accident. I just—” He met Scott’s eyes. “That _keeps_ happening. Anytime we go out, we’ll see a Nutcracker poster, or her dance friends will post photos of the show on Instagram, and… it’s like navigating a field full of landmines.” He glanced downwards, rubbing Finn’s belly. “And I don’t know how to protect her from it. I _hate_ seeing her like that, spiraling every time she’s reminded she can’t dance, but I don’t know how to stop it.”

“I don’t think you can,” Scott admitted, his expression a little heartbroken. “I know you want to, but you can’t protect her from the whole world.”

“I wish I could,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “I _know_ I can’t, but I just… I don’t want her to feel like that. I’d do anything to stop it.” He glanced at Scott again, inhaling. “And I feel like it’s so much _worse_ than she’s letting on. Like she’s not telling me how bad it really is.”

“Really?” Scott asked. Stiles just nodded. “Yeah. Not that she’s shutting me out, or anything. It’s more like she’s shutting _herself_ out. She won’t completely open up and talk to me about it.” He paused, hesitating before continuing. He tried not to make it a habit to discuss his and Lydia’s sex life with his best friend, but… “Like a couple weeks ago, I got home from work, and she said that it was sinking in that she really couldn’t dance anymore and she needed me to distract her.” Scott’s brow furrowed, but he remained silent, letting Stiles continue. “And she didn’t want to talk about it or anything. She just wanted me to make her feel something else. And I think if she keeps pushing all this down like she is now, it’s going to get worse.”

“That’s hard,” Scott agreed. “Because you can’t push her, but you want her to open up so you can help her.”

“Exactly,” Stiles sighed, relieved Scott _got_ it. “And I know Lydia’s not like that. That she won’t just lay it all out on the table. But I want to _help_ her, and I can’t if she won’t tell me how bad it really is.” He shook his head again, looking down again, dejected. “She thinks there’s nothing to her life without dance. And I think that’s why she’s spiraling.”

He looked at Scott again, and his friend’s heartbroken expression mirrored his own. “I just…” he hesitated, unsure how to phrase it. Because Lydia was _more,_ so much more, and he wished that she could see that as clearly as he could.

“I know,” Scott nodded, his eyes understanding, and Stiles sighed, glad that even if Lydia didn’t, someone else saw it too.

***

January dawned bleak and cold as it always did, the days growing darker and the temperatures sinking lower. Lydia had always hated January— it was long and dismal and cold, and the only thing she’d liked was the return of the ballet season after holiday recess, filled with new dances and new choreography. This year, though, she didn’t even have that.

Being away from dance was really starting to eat at her, despite her friends’ attempt to keep her spirits high. A week ago the heavy plaster cast had come off, replaced by a sleeker, lighter walking boot she’d wear for another eight or so weeks. “Halfway there,” Stiles had whispered to her excitedly, squeezing her hand as they’d left the hospital. But eight weeks seemed like a lifetime away— the company resumed today, and seeing her friends’ instagram posts was just driving home the fact that she’d probably be sitting out the rest of this season.

Lydia was on the couch now, eyes fixed on her phone screen, unable to look away from the smiling selfie Lauren had posted of her, Adelaide, and Caroline in the studio on instagram. She knew she _shouldn’t_ be looking, but it was like a train wreck: she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Finn rested his head in her lap as she rubbed his flank absentmindedly, thoughts caught up in the what-ifs dancing through her mind. She scrolled down to Boston Ballet’s post congratulating their dancers who had received mid-season promotions. If she hadn’t broken her ankle, would she be a part of this slideshow of other dancers, smiling joyfully as they rose through the ranks? She was _supposed_ to be one of them. Now the only question that remained was whether or not the possibility of promotion still stood when— and _if,_ her traitorous brain went— she returned.

A knock sounded on the door, and both Finn and Lydia looked up as Allison entered the apartment. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, smile full of hope and exuberance, and Lydia forced herself to push down her grief, slapping a smile on her face and playing along. She was _not_ going to ruin this day for Allison.

“You ready to go?” Allison asked, hand clutched tightly on her purse strap. Lydia nodded decisively, grabbing her crutches and standing. She didn’t particularly need them anymore— she _was_ in a walking cast now— but the doctor said the more she kept off her ankle, the better it would heal.

“Allison, I have been ready for this since the day you got engaged,” Lydia said, grabbing her coat and purse.

“Good,” Allison responded, her grin infectious.

“Come on Finn, time to visit Uncle Scott,” Lydia said to the dog, leading him to the door. “You sure Scott doesn’t mind watching him?” she checked with Allison again.

“He’s just sitting around studying,” Allison said, shaking her head. “He doesn’t mind at all.”

They dropped Finn off across the hall, waving a brief goodbye to Scott, who looked buried in vet school work, before heading for the T. As they stepped on the train, Lydia’s phone buzzed; she glanced down to check it, wondering if it was Stiles. The name that read across her screen made her heart thud, her stomach filling with dread: _Bunheads,_ with four dancing girl emojis. She didn’t read Lauren’s text message, just registered it was there, before quickly powering off her phone and tucking it in her purse. Reading it would only make her feel bad, she was sure. And she was _determined_ to make this day perfect for Allison.

“So what are you thinking, style wise?” Lydia asked her friend, confident that the hours of sifting through pretty dresses ahead of them would help snap her out of this sinking, morose mood.

Allison’s eyes lit up again, and she tilted her head to the side slightly, considering. “I don’t know,” she admitted as the T screeched past Boylston street. “Not something _enormous._ Maybe more of a simple silhouette. I don’t need a huge princess wedding dress.”

“More like a mermaid dress?” Lydia asked. Allison shrugged.

“I don’t know about _mermaid_ dress. Maybe a less exaggerated mermaid skirt? Something not quite as form-fitting?” She grinned at Lydia, shaking her head. “I really don’t know. But between the two of us, I know we’ll find it.”

They finally arrived at the bridal salon, shedding their coats and meeting Allison’s consultant before being brought over to the racks and racks of dresses. Lydia’s phone kept buzzing, accumulating more incoming messages from her dance friends, but it was easy to ignore when faced with endless possibilities of gorgeous white gowns.

“What about this one?” Lydia asked, balancing on one foot as she tugged a dress out from the rack to show Allison. The other girl considered it, nodding decisively.

“I like that one a lot,” she agreed, running her hand over the lacy appliques on the illusion neckline. Lydia wasn’t quite sure what it was about the dress, but it just said _Allison_ to her.

Soon they’d amassed a collection of ten or so options, and they followed the consultant back to the fitting rooms, another employee trailing behind with arms full of the sample dresses. “I’ll sit here,” Lydia told her best friend, taking a seat in the waiting area, watching as Allison and her consultant went into a room.

“What do you think?” Allison asked, emerging a minute later in a simple white dress with a deep v neck and a full skirt.

“It’s pretty,” Lydia said, gesturing for Allison to turn around. “It looks _great_ on you.”

Allison surveyed herself in the mirror, smoothing her hands over the skirt contemplatively.

“But you don’t love it,” Lydia supplied, knowing the look on her friend’s face. Allison turned back to Lydia, eyes relieved, and nodded.

“It’s really pretty. But it’s not the _one.”_

“Okay, then. Next one,” Lydia instructed, shooing her back into the fitting room. They continued through a couple more, and while they all looked _good,_ they weren’t _the_ dress.

“I do really like the train on this one,” Allison offered of the dress she was currently in, turning to look at the fabric behind her, skirt swishing.

“I love the embroidery,” Lydia agreed. “Those appliques are gorgeous. Where was the other one with appliques like that? Try that one on.”

Allison returned to the dressing room, her consultant following behind her, the door snapping shut just as Lydia’s phone buzzed again. Sighing, she finally unlocked it, warily selecting messages. They had been texting her _all morning._ She guessed it was probably a good idea to make sure everything was okay.

Immediately, she regretted her decision. Scrolling up to the top, she saw it started out innocent enough— Adelaide, Lauren, and Caroline wanted to know how she was doing and how her ankle was, healing-wise. Lauren proposed a dinner out this weekend to catch up, and as much as she’d been avoiding ballet, Lydia thought it would be good to see her friends again, in a setting away from dance. Just as she went to respond that yes, she’d love to get dinner, a new message came through from Adelaide.

_Lydia, you’ve gotta see the dress I picked out for the ball!! Even Lauren approves! You and Stiles are still coming, right?_

Her breath immediately caught, thinking of the annual ball Boston Ballet held for its sponsors. The dancers always went as guests, but the ball also served as a preview for the second half of the season— on the first weekend of February, it was the perfect time for the dancers to perform some numbers from upcoming shows and get more sponsors to contribute.

She hadn’t even _thought_ of the ball, honestly. It was always such a fun time— getting dressed up, getting to meet all sorts of famous choreographers and patrons and other people, getting to perform some upcoming numbers— but this year, if Lydia went, she wouldn’t get to dance at all. _If,_ her mind went, mocking. _Of course you have to go to the Ball._ Everyone _goes to the ball._

Her train of thought broke off as Allison emerged from the dressing room in the gown Lydia had spotted earlier. Her breath caught, because Allison looked gorgeous, and she was practically _glowing._ Her consultant arranged her skirts as Allison stepped up onto the dais at the front of the waiting area, surrounded by mirrors. Lydia didn’t think she’d _ever_ seen Allison grin so wide.

“Oh my god, Allison,” she said, trying to act as happy as her best friend looked, but her voice broke, giving her away.

Allison’s smile immediately was replaced by a frown, her eyebrows scrunching together. “What’s wrong?” she asked, looking back down at the dress. “Do you not like it? _Tell_ me if you don’t think it looks good.”

“No, no,” Lydia said immediately, shaking her head and forcing herself not to cry. “Allison, you look beautiful.”

“Then what is it?” Allison asked, stepping off the dais and walking closer to her best friend.

“It’s nothing,” Lydia insisted, shaking her head slightly, trying to focus on what they were _supposed_ to be doing here. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

Allison gave Lydia an extremely unimpressed look that clearly conveyed she was not buying it. She turned to her consultant, asking the woman, “Can we have a minute?” The woman nodded, taking some of the reject dresses from Allison’s room back to the racks.

“Come here,” Allison said, grabbing Lydia’s hand and dragging her over to the dais, both of them sitting down on the edge. “What’s up?” Allison asked again, hand squeezing Lydia’s.

 _“Nothing,_ Allison, it’s fine,” Lydia insisted, still choking back tears. “This is _your_ day, okay? I’m not ruining it.”

Allison laughed at that. “Come on, Lydia, we’re just picking out a dress. I’m not getting married in an hour or something.” She nudged Lydia’s shoulder with her own. “What’s wrong?”

Lydia sighed, her body shuddering. “Adelaide just asked about the ball. If Stiles and I are still going,” she supplied, and Allison immediately squeezed her hand comfortingly. “And I _have_ to go, Allison. There’s no way I can’t go.” She blinked, furiously trying to keep the tears from running down her cheeks. She just felt so small and _helpless_ inside that it was hard to keep her emotions in check about this.

“But they’re going to do selections from _Swan Lake_ there. And some of the other shows from this season. Shows I should have _been_ in.” She paused. “It’s one thing to meet Lauren and Adelaide for lunch or something and not talk about dance. But to _see_ them dance, when I can’t—” She shook her head again, turning to look at Allison. “I’m _so_ scared something’s going to go wrong. I know the doctors keep saying it’s fine. That everything is healing beautifully. But I can’t stop thinking that something’s going to happen, and I’m never going to be able to dance again.” She blinked, swallowing. “I don’t know who I am without dance in my life. And I don’t want to have to figure it out.”

“I know that’s terrifying,” Allison said. “But it’s not going to happen. You’re going to be fine, and you’re going to recover, and you’re going to be back next season. And it’ll be like you never left.” Allison paused, squeezing her hand. “And if something _does_ happen— you don’t have to figure out who you are without dance alone, okay? You have Stiles, and Scott, and me. And Kira, Malia, Isaac— we’re all going to be there for you. And we’re going to help you. But it’s not going to go wrong. You’re going to be _fine.”_

“I know,” Lydia said, feeling foolish, but still terrified of the what-ifs all at the same time. “Thank you, Allison. I know it’s going to be okay, I just— the thought of it _not_ being okay terrifies me.”

“I know,” Allison said, expression calm. “It scares me too. But you’re the strongest person I know, so I know you’re going to get through this. And I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“Thank you,” Lydia sighed, overwhelmed by how grateful she was for her best friend. She leaned her head on Allison’s shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut again. They were still full of tears, but they weren’t the panicky tears from before; now, she had to keep herself from crying at how much Allison’s words meant to her. Allison just squeezed her hand again, resting her head against the top of Lydia’s.

“So what do you think of this one?” Allison asked, her other hand running over the skirt of the dress. Lydia smiled, squeezing her eyes shut and banishing the last of her tears.

“I think this is it,” Lydia told her, lifting her head to survey Allison again. “This is the one.”

“You think so?” Allison asked, but her hesitant smile told Lydia that _she_ thought this was it too.

“Yes,” Lydia said without hesitation. “This is definitely your dress.”

***

Stiles didn’t have to look far for Lydia when he got home.

“Hey, Lyds,” he said as he walked through the door, Finn barking and running right up to his feet. Lydia was curled up on the couch in the living room, cocooned in one of his flannels, a textbook open on her lap that Stiles immediately recognized as one of her favorites: _Thermodynamic Asymmetry in Time._ The cover was beaten and worn, the pages annotated and marked with sticky notes, but her eyes weren’t moving along the lines. He could see what Allison had meant, when she’d called him after they’d returned from dress shopping.

“I brought you something,” he said after he shed his coat, sitting down next to her and presenting her with the Mike’s Pastry box he’d brought home. “Limoncello cannoli. Your favorite.”

“Thanks,” she said quietly, her body still. Stiles noticed the shift in her normal mood— generally when he came home from work after her, she would gravitate towards him, and they would end up tangled together on the couch. But now she just sat there, the couple inches of space between them seeming like miles, as she stared distantly across the room, her eyes void of the normal amount of light in them. Her back was too stiff, her limbs too rigid, and she seemed too small in his flannel, like she was curled in on herself, making herself seem tinier.

“Allison called me,” he told her, wanting desperately to move closer to her, but not knowing if she wanted that. He wanted to be there for her, but he also didn’t want to push her.

“She did?” Lydia asked, finally turning to look at Stiles. His heart broke when he met her gaze, because there was something vacant about her green eyes, and he wanted to _fix_ it so badly, but he had no idea where to start.

“Yeah,” he said. “She said Adelaide texted you about the ball.”

That was all it took for Lydia to break, because before he could even process, she was in his lap, head pressed into the crook of his neck. Automatically his arms circled around her, holding her close to him.

“We have to go, Stiles,” she told him, her voice shaky. “I can’t _not_ go. But I don’t think I can watch them all _dance_ too.”

Stiles stayed silent, one hand running up and down her back, and allowed her to keep going. He could tell she just needed to _talk_ about it right now. As long as she wanted him to, he was perfectly content to listen. Afterwards he would pick up the broken pieces and try to put her back together.

“Just— the choreographers will be there,” she said, shuddering. “And the sponsors, and the heads of the company, and all my instructors, and—” she shook her head, though it was still buried in Stiles’s neck. “I don’t know if I can go through that. I don’t know if I can talk to all those people and pretend everything’s _normal_ and then watch the entire company get on stage and perform. I don’t think I can do a whole night of questions about why I’m not dancing, how I’m doing.” She paused. “Because I’m _not_ fine, not by a long shot. And I’m going to have to pretend I am.” She lifted her head from his shoulder, and her eyes were bloodshot when they met his. “I’m so _sick_ of pretending, Stiles,” she admitted, and he just tugged her into his body, hoping that somehow his arms could help put her a little more at ease.

“Well, I’ll be there with you, the whole time,” he assured her. “No matter what. And if you get there and you decide you want to leave, we can pretend I just got violently ill.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice steadier, as she rested her head on his shoulder. Stiles hummed in acknowledgement, using his free hand to reach for the Mike’s box.

“You want these?” he asked, already starting to untie the string, and she nodded immediately.

He finally got the box open, handing her the limoncello cannoli he’d picked for her before grabbing his chocolate peanut butter one. _A perfect combination,_ he couldn’t help thinking as he took a bite.

Lydia took a dainty bite of hers, shaking her head slightly. “It’s just…” she started, leaning into his side. “It’s hard enough knowing that the company’s still going while I’m stuck here, barely able to _walk,_ let alone dance. And I _know_ it’s still going. That obviously the entire dance world doesn’t revolve around me. But not being able to dance is _excruciating.”_ She turned her head to look at Stiles, and he met her eyes, nodding.

“You hate feeling this stuck,” he offered, because he knew that was how she felt. Trapped, pinned down, physically held back from doing the one thing she loved more than _anything_ because of the cast on her foot.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding slowly, her shoulders sagging in relief that he _got_ it. “I don’t like thinking of  how Boston Ballet’s going on without me. The ball is just going to be a constant visual reminder that it is.”

“I know,” Stiles said, kissing her cheek. She made a face, because his breath probably smelled like peanut butter. “Only eight more weeks, though. Lydia,” he said, and she turned her head to look at him again, eyes so sad. “You’re gonna get through this, okay?” Stiles told her. “You can do anything. And I’ll be here the whole time.”

“Thank you,” she said again, voice soft and a little broken, and she rested her head on his shoulder again.

“So how was dress shopping?” Stiles asked, mouth partially full of cannoli. “Allison didn’t say.”

“It went well,” Lydia said. “She found her dress.”

“That’s good,” Stiles responded. He’d had no doubt that between the two of them, they’d find something gorgeous. He was still waiting for when they forced him and Scott to go get fitted for their tuxes.

“It still seems kind of unreal that they’re getting married, doesn’t it?” Stiles asked. Not that he thought it seemed _wrong._ The first time he’d heard Scott talk about Allison he had known that this girl was the one for Scott. He’d _never_ heard his best friend talk about someone like that. It just seemed… surreal, almost. Like it was too good to believe it was really happening.

“Yeah,” Lydia said. “But it makes sense. They’re perfect for each other. And they make each other better.”

“Mmm,” he hummed in agreement, leaning his head against Lydia’s, which was still on his shoulder.

“When are _we_ going to get married?” Lydia asked conversationally, and Stiles almost spit out his cannoli.

 _“What?”_ he choked out, completely flabbergasted, and Lydia lifted her head off his shoulder to look at him. “Lydia, I didn’t— you can’t just—” His mouth gaped like a fish for probably another minute before he managed to get out, “Do you _want_ to get married?”

She shrugged, but he could see the certainty in her eyes. “I mean, we have an apartment and a dog. We’re each other’s emergency contact. The only person I always want to talk to, when things are good or bad, is you. How much would it really change?”

“That’s true,” he said, still a little shell-shocked. “So if I asked you, you’d say yes?”

She scrunched up her eyebrows adorably, making a face at him. “Did you think I’d say _no?”_

“No,” he said truthfully. Of course he had thought about it— going ring shopping with Scott made it impossible _not_ to. And he wanted to marry Lydia; he loved her more than anything, and he didn’t want to imagine what his life would be like without her in it. He’d just never— not that he really thought she _would_ say no. But she was so much more guarded. Her past relationships had hurt her more. And he hadn’t really minded waiting.

“So, you want me to go get a ring?” he asked, a grin creeping onto his face. “Because there were a couple I saw when I went with Scott. I could be back in an hour,” he told her. She laughed, resting her head on his shoulder again, leaning into him.

“No, don’t go buy a ring,” she said, still smiling. “No rush. Like I said, I don’t think it would change that much.” She tilted her head to look up at him again. “But when you _do_ ask, just know I’ll say yes.”

“God, I love you,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her. She smiled against his lips, his heart thumping erratically at how happy he felt in this moment, with the girl he loved more than anything.

“Mmm,” she sighed, pulling away from him slowly. He looked into her eyes, thankful to see that the sorrow and emptiness from earlier had dissipated.

“You feel better?” Stiles asked her, kissing her nose, even though he already knew the answer. She nodded decisively, leaning into him again.

“Yeah,” she told him. “I’ve got you.”

***

Already, Lydia could feel the panic starting to build.

“Okay,” Kira said, stepping back from Lydia and admiring her handiwork. “I think you’re good.”

“It looks perfect, Kira,” Lydia said, admiring the elegant updo Kira had arranged her curls in as she tried to force down the lurking feeling of panic lingering in her system. Allison walked into the bedroom with her garment bag in hand just as Kira capped the hairspray, placing it back on her dresser.

“Stiles is almost ready,” Allison told the two of them, laying the bag on the bed and tugging down the zipper. “Scott’s been helping him.”

“Should that scare me?” Lydia asked, shrugging off her robe as Allison unzipped the dress for her, carefully bracing one hand on Kira’s shoulder as Allison pooled the dress on the floor for her to step into.

“Careful,” Malia said, taking Lydia’s arm and holding her steady as she stepped into the dress gingerly, boot first. Her cast might have been more manageable than the old one, but it was still a nuisance to get dressed with.

“He looks really good,” Allison said, helping Lydia guide the dress up her torso, zipping it once Lydia held the front in place.

“Well, I did pick his outfit out for him,” Lydia offered, and the girls smiled at each other.

“You look beautiful, Lydia,” Kira said, a sincere smile stretching across her face. Lydia surveyed herself in the mirror across the room. Her aqua-ish dress looked surprisingly good with her hair, and she had done a pretty good job with her makeup, if she did say so herself. Malia offered her the one flat shoe she’d wear, almost like Cinderella, and Lydia slipped it on her foot, rearranging the floor-length skirt. You couldn’t even tell she was wearing a cast with it, when she stood still.

“Babe, you almost ready— woah,” Stiles said, appearing in their doorway and immediately freezing at the sight of his girlfriend. Lydia had a similar reaction, though, because he looked… god, he looked _really_ good. The all-black suit she’d picked out for him fit him like a glove, and he’d brushed his hair over to the side, or something— he looked like a movie star. It made her mouth go a little dry, and she could feel her cheeks getting hot, suddenly desperately wishing they could just skip the ball and stay here for the night.

“You look _beautiful,”_ Stiles said, his smile stretching to cover his whole face as he stepped farther into the bedroom.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she returned, smirking at his lovestruck expression, but she couldn’t deny the warm, fuzzy feeling that spread through her chest because Stiles was looking at her like that. Like she was the galaxy, or the only thing he could see. Like she was so much more in his eyes than she was in reality.

“No, Finn, come back here!” Scott said, bursting into the room behind Stiles, chasing after their puppy. Malia scooped him up with ease, cradling him to her chest.

“I wouldn’t do that, buddy,” she said to him, stroking his ears. “You don’t want to get fur on your mom’s dress.”

“Sorry,” Scott apologized, straightening up and facing his friends. “He ran away from me.”

“It’s because he can tell you’ve never seen Star Wars, and he’s disgusted with your life choices,” Stiles informed his best friend. At that, Lydia groaned.

“Okay, come on,” she told Stiles, grabbing the purse Allison was offering her, hugging Kira in thanks one more time. “Our Uber should be here any minute.”

“Thanks for helping us, guys,” Stiles said, the whole group following him back into the living room. “Malia, Kira, you sure you don’t mind watching Finn for the night?”

“Not at all,” Kira assured them, petting the dog, who was still in Malia’s arms. “We’ll bring him back in the morning.”

“We’ve got to go too, Scott, we have dinner reservations,” Allison reminded her fiancé.

“The car’s here,” Lydia said, looking up from her phone. The text slid down as another notification popped onto her screen: _Boston Ballet just added to their Instagram story! Check it out before it’s gone!_

Lydia swallowed, trying to force back the sense of panic that was lurking in the back of her mind. _You are going to this ball,_ she told herself. Regardless of what was going on, she _had_ to go.

She tried to fight off the feeling of dread clinging to her the entire car ride there, but as they walked into the function hall, that panicky, trapped feeling only grew worse. The room was breathtaking, decorated with twinkling lights and props and sets worthy of one of their shows, a castle facade shining against the wall, but the stage loomed at the front of the hall— a place that was usually so comforting to Lydia filling her with nothing but dread.

Stiles seemed to sense her discomfort, because he squeezed her hand, fingers still laced with hers.

“Lydia!” someone squealed, and before she knew what was happening Adelaide was practically tackling her in a hug. “You’re here!”

Adelaide released her, and Lydia could see Lauren and Caroline behind her too, Caroline’s fiancé there as well. “Hi, Stiles!” Adelaide said, leaning in to give him a hug too.

“Hey, Adelaide,” Stiles said in greeting, smiling hello to all her other friends too. Lauren gave Lydia a hug, squeezing her longer than usual.

“You look _gorgeous,”_ Caroline told her, resting a hand on her arm. “I love your dress.”

“Thanks,” Lydia said, fighting to keep her voice steady. _You’re fine, you’re fine,_ she tried to convince herself, battling the nauseous feeling rising in her stomach. _No dance. You’re just talking with your friends. You’re fine._

“So how are you?” Lauren asked, eyes sympathetic, and Lydia froze, unable to fight off the panic overtaking her brain, because she knew what Lauren was _really_ asking.

“We’ve been good,” Stiles answered instead, resting a hand on the small of her back, and immediately Lydia felt a little calmer. The warmth of Stiles’s hand kept her anchored to him, the familiarity of his touch reminding her that he was here, and he was going to make sure she was okay. “I’ve been teaching Lydia how to cook.”

 _“Stiles,”_ Lydia responded, rolling her eyes at him. “I _know_ how to cook.”

He pulled a face. “Are you _sure?”_ he asked, grimacing, and her friends laughed.

“I can cook a few things perfectly well,” she informed him, meeting his eyes. She could see from his expression, though— he was doing this for her. Teasing her, joking with her friends— he was trying to make things feel normal, trying to make her feel less like a caged animal. It was working, and she had never been more grateful that he was one of the few people who could read her like an open book.

“How’s Finn?” Caroline asked, ever the dog enthusiast. Stiles’s face lit up, immediately pulling out his phone to show off the newest batch of pictures of the dog.

They kept chatting about everything but dance on their way to the table and through dinner. Anytime choreographers or sponsors would come up to them, congratulating them on the season or wondering how Lydia was doing, Stiles’s hand squeezed hers, giving her an anchor and making her feel calmer. If it hadn’t been for his steady touch, Lydia thought she would have fallen apart a while ago. Still, she couldn’t fight that feeling always lurking, threatening to overtake her. It was like she was barely treading water, her head just above the surface, and she was moments away from drowning.

Dinner ended, and Lydia had to admit, despite the panicky feeling this place gave her, it was nice to joke and talk with all her friends— she had missed them, and it almost felt normal again. For a moment, she even forgot about the cast on her leg.

But then Adelaide, Lauren, Caroline, and Emily began exchanging glances, like they had to say something but didn’t know how to start. Reality came crashing back down, and Lydia rested a hand on Stiles’s leg as she realized what was happening.

“You have to go get changed, don’t you?” she asked, and her friends exchanged awkward looks with each other, nodding slightly. She shook her head slightly, as if she was perfectly fine with this development. “Good luck,” she told them, fake grin plastered on her face, and hesitantly they stood up, heading for the back of the hall with the rest of the dancers. Caroline’s fiancé turned to Emily’s boyfriend, the two of them talking, but Lydia couldn’t tear her eyes away from the retreating backs of her friends.

“Hey, Lydia,” Stiles said, gently turning her head towards him with his hand. He let his palm rest on her cheek, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. “Look at me, okay?” She listened, meeting his eyes, and she could _feel_ the panic bubbling underneath the surface, the threat of drowning becoming more and more of a reality. The cast on her foot felt like it weighed a million pounds, tying her down, anchoring her to the floor, physically keeping her off that stage, as if that was its only purpose.

“Hey,” Stiles said, voice impossibly soft, and he leaned in and kissed her chastely. It was enough to snap her out of her spiral, forcing her fears out of her mind and turning her focus back to Stiles. Just Stiles, staring at her with his whiskey eyes, overcome with concern.

“You okay?” he asked her gently, hand still cupping her face, and she nodded slowly. She knew she was lying, that she was the _farthest_ thing from okay, but she didn’t know how to convey how she felt right now. It was like someone was forcing the air from her lungs and pressing down on her chest relentlessly.

The lights on the stage dimmed, and she heard the music for _Gâité Parisienne_ begin, because they were doing that piece in their spring contemporary show this year. Lydia could taste the bile in her mouth as she watched her friends prance on stage in their elaborate can-can costumes, wide smiles plastered on their faces, and her breath grew shallow, her heart suddenly racing.

“I— I have to go,” she said, voice shaky. Stiles turned to look at her, eyes full of concern, and she shook her head slightly, unable to meet his gaze. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Okay,” he said, his brow furrowing. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she responded automatically, already standing up. She could feel the eyes of the people around them on her, boring into the back of her head, and her skin started to crawl, her stomach churning. The music of _Gâité Parisienne_ was deafening, pounding in her ears, like a thousand screams were built up there, pressing on the inside of her skull. Without another glance at the table, she grabbed her purse and fled the hall as fast as she could in her boot, holding her skirts up unceremoniously.

The side hallway was deserted, the music harder to hear, but Lydia still felt like her lungs were collapsing, her throat closing up. Her breath was coming out short, and the inability to breathe was getting worse and worse. In a daze, she stumbled down the hall, finally finding a bathroom and rushing inside.

It was blissfully quiet once the door closed, and Lydia rushed to the sink, bracing her hands on the cold porcelain. The music from outside was gone, but she still felt nauseous. Slowly, she tried to calm her breathing, stop her racing heartbeat and churning stomach, block the music from her head. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it,_ she chanted over and over in her head, hoping that thinking the words would maybe somehow force them to be true.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, unmoving, her ankle aching dully from so much walking, reminding her that this could never _really_ be over. No matter what, no matter how much she convinced herself she was okay, she still couldn’t dance. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Gradually, her heart rate slowed down, her breathing returned to normal, but she couldn’t shake that uneasiness still lurking in the back of her mind, waiting to take over. That ever-present sense of sheer panic was still there.

She heard the faintest echo of applause from the main hall, and she looked up to meet her reflection in the mirror. Her makeup was still impeccable, her hair effortless and gorgeous, not a curl out of place. Her skin looked smooth, not flushed or clammy, the sheen of sweat from her near panic attack invisible. She looked _perfect,_ she noted, staring down her reflection. Perfect was the last thing that she felt, but this was all a game of pretend at this point. Pretend she was fine. Pretend that she’d be okay. Pretend she didn’t constantly feel like she was drowning, with no discernable way to get back to the surface.

Taking a deep breath, Lydia tried to steel herself to go back out there before anyone came looking for her. _It’ll be fine,_ she lied to herself. _Just hold Stiles’s hand and don’t actually watch the stage and pretend you’re holding it together. Pretend, pretend, pretend._ Blotting under her eyes and checking her reflection one more time, she slowly made her way to the door, hand hesitating on the handle.

That’s when she heard it.

“Oh my god, Adelaide, that’s _awesome,”_ Lauren said, her voice quiet on the other side of the door. Lydia’s veins turned icy as she realized that the dancers’ changing rooms must have been right next to the bathroom she found.

“Thank you,” Adelaide said, voice sincere. “It’s not official yet, obviously, but they just told me that I was pretty much a guaranteed promotion at the end of the season, as long as nothing disastrous happens.”

 _Disastrous,_ Lydia’s mind echoed, her hand going slack on the handle as she remembered that sunny day in September, when the directors had pulled her aside and said one of the soloist spots was hers as long as nothing happened this season. Nothing like her breaking her ankle and throwing her entire dance career into jeopardy.

“You’ll be fine,” Lauren assured her, voice confident. “The season’s more than halfway over anyways.”

“I know,” Adelaide said, and Lydia could hear the excitement in her voice. “God, a _soloist._ That’s only one step away from a principle. I’m almost there.”

“I better be next,” Lauren joked, but Lydia recognized the serious undertone of her voice. Adelaide scoffed.

“Oh, come on, you will be. You know they always promote me first because I have the longer legs, but you’re a better dancer than me anyways.”

Lauren laughed at that, and Lydia remained frozen, unsure what to do. Her stomach was still in knots, heart pounding, and that panicky, trapped feeling was getting worse, building and building and pushing in on all sides—

“I feel bad, though,” Adelaide admitted, voice quieter and laced with guilt. “Don’t— you can’t say a _word_ to her, _ever,_ okay? But it was supposed to be Lydia’s spot.”

At those words, the world seemed to stop spinning.

Lydia completely froze, unable to process how exactly to feel. She slumped against the door, her limbs limp, her heart feeling like someone had just shoved a knife in it. Her blood turned to ice, the world zooming out around her, becoming hazy and unfocused, but her friends continued talking.

“Wait, really?” Lauren asked, but the words sounded garbled to Lydia, like she was trying to hear underwater.

“Yeah,” Adelaide responded, voice grim. “You know how she was supposed to get promoted at the end of the season? Well, now she can’t be, obviously, so they gave me her slot instead. They told me that I wasn’t going to get moved up until next season, but…”

“Oh my god,” Lauren said, voice hushed. “I won’t say a word, I promise. God, that would _devastate_ her.”

“I know,” Adelaide replied, but Lydia missed what else they said, because she was rushing to one of the bathroom stalls. Ungracefully, she dropped to the ground, retching into the toilet— there was barely anything in her stomach for her to throw up, but the bile in her throat was overpowering. Shaking, she braced herself on the side of the toilet, her breathing shallow, Adelaide’s words ringing in her head.

_It was supposed to be Lydia’s spot._

This night had been hell; of that there was no doubt— but it felt like everything, every instance of panic, every feeling of being trapped, helpless, _useless,_ it all culminated in this moment. Having to see her friends up on stage, dancing while she was stuck on the ground, hearing them talk in the hallway about solos and promotions— they were all still going. The _company_ was still going. They didn’t need Lydia; they would find some new dancer, move someone else up into her spot, and she would be virtually erased. She felt completely disposable, and she was hit with the crushing realization that everything she had done, everything she had worked for, everything she had gone through— it wasn’t enough. This company would keep flourishing with or without her, and she would be stuck on the sidelines, a complete and utter failure.

 _You_ are _a failure,_ her mind jeered, her breath still shallow. _Your whole life, you’ve been working to rise through the ranks, and now they’re giving away your promotions to better, able dancers. You’ve always wanted a reputation of prestige in this company, and you’re completely replaceable. They don’t need you, and they never will. Your ankle is going to heal wrong, and you’re never going to be able to dance again. And Boston Ballet will not care, because they don’t need you._

Her body shaking, Lydia threw up again, her mouth sour and her limbs weak. Her head felt fuzzy, but her mind chanted, over and over, _failure, failure, failure,_ pressing in from all sides, blocking any other conscious thought. She slumped backwards, letting go of the toilet, the cold tile feeling good through the gauzy fabric of her dress. But her ears were still pounding, her head still excruciatingly painful, and all she could think was _run, run, run._

She stood shakily, tugging the long skirts of her dress out of the way of her cast. _Her cast._ Tears welled in her eyes looking at the stupid thing, fast and hot, rolling down her cheeks before she could stop them. She stared at the black boot on her foot, hating it with every fiber of her being for stealing everything from her. Her job, her promotion, her _passion._ She might not ever be able to dance again, because of the stupid, stupid cast on her ankle, keeping her tied down, anchored in one place. Nothing scared Lydia more than that thought. A world where she was not a dancer anymore was not a world she wanted to learn to navigate.

The hallway was quiet outside, she noted, making her way back to the door. She could hear faint traces of the classic _Swan Lake_ music, and she knew her friends would all be onstage. Her head still pounding, she opened the door, darting down the hallway, trying to ignore the swell of the music echoing from the hall. It was mocking her, reminding her that they could dance and she couldn’t, and she _couldn’t do it, couldn’t do this,_ she thought, as she forced herself down the hallway, rushing as fast as she possibly could to the double doors to the street.

The February air was biting, immediately sending shivers through her body, stabbing her skin like needles and making her muscles tense up. The last remnants of last week’s snow clung to the sidewalk, frozen over snowbanks more brown with dirt and salt and slush than white, and Lydia felt like that— a dirty, forgotten snowbank, slowly dwindling away to nothing. She could still hear the music from inside, could _picture_ the dancers onstage, picture Odette and the swans, graceful, elegant, poised— everything she was not. She didn’t fit anymore. She was replaceable and disposable, and the world of ballet kept turning without her.

 _Failure,_ her mind jeered again, and before she could even consider, Lydia was gone, running, running away from that awful place.

***

By the time the Grand Pas from _Swan Lake_ was over, Stiles was starting to get worried.

It had been nearly ten minutes since Lydia had excused herself to go to the bathroom, and while taking ten minutes wasn’t exactly _unprecedented_ with her, it was still pretty uncommon.

He looked down at his phone again as the dancers onstage switched, his brow furrowing at the lack of notifications. “Lydia, where _are_ you?” he muttered, voice drowned out in the applause from the audience. His text messages asking her _Are you okay?_ and _Hey, where are you?_ had gone completely unnoticed. Glancing up at the stage again, Stiles stood, making his way for the back of the ballroom, the sounds of applause fading in the deserted hallway.

Clearly Lydia was not here, because _no one_ was here. He wandered aimlessly down the hallway, looking for any sign of his girlfriend, finally stumbling upon the women’s restroom.

He hesitated by the door, knocking, wondering if that would be loud enough for her to hear. When he got no response, he decided to risk it, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

No one was there, every single stall in the bathroom empty.

Panic fluttered in his stomach at the realization that Lydia wasn’t there. _Where else could she be?_ he thought, genuinely stumped. Walking back to the hall, he pulled his phone out again— still no new notifications. She wouldn’t have gone backstage with the dancers; that would have been too painful for her. Regardless, he didn’t know where _else_ she would be, so he pulled up Lauren’s contact info, not remembering seeing her going onstage for the last dance.

“Stiles?” Lauren answered a minute later, voice full of confusion. “Are you okay?”

“Have you seen Lydia?” he asked, cutting right to the chase.

“No?” Lauren responded, and it was obvious how surprised she was by his question. “Why, she’s not with you in the ballroom?”

“She said she had to go to the bathroom ten minutes ago, and she never came back.”

“She’s not back here,” Lauren said. Then, more muffled: “Caroline, you haven’t seen Lydia, right?”

Stiles barely heard Caroline’s responding “no” before Lauren was back on the phone. “No, we haven’t seen her,” she confirmed. “Stiles, we have to go onstage again.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, mind racing, desperately trying to figure out where his girlfriend could be. “Thanks anyways.”

“Let us know when you find her, okay?” Lauren asked, her voice concerned.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, almost absentmindedly. “Good luck with the rest of the performance.”

As soon as he hung up with Lauren, he immediately dialed Lydia. The phone rang briefly, before going right to voicemail. He tried again, getting her voicemail again.

“Lydia, for the love of god,” he muttered, wandering back to the entrance hall. “Pick up your phone.”

Stiles stood in the foyer of the place, at a loss. His mind was racing, that feeling of panic building in his stomach. _Where the hell could she be?_ he wondered, running a hand through his hair. And it was _February,_ too, the ground still icy, and she had a broken _ankle—_

“Hey!” Stiles said, catching sight of the doorman, the only other person in the foyer. “Excuse me,” he said again, trying to make his voice sound less accusatory.

“Did you see a girl in here, not that long ago?” Stiles asked the man. “Red hair, greenish dress?”

“Really tiny?” the guy asked. “Yeah, she left about ten minutes ago.”

“She _left?”_ Stiles asked, his stomach dropping. The guy just nodded.

“Yeah. I didn’t see her get in a cab or anything. She just walked out.”

“Holy— God, Lydia,” he mumbled, running his hand over his jaw. “Thanks,” he said, turning back to the guy. He just nodded.

Stiles pulled out his phone again, pushing the doors open and walking out to the sidewalk, as if Lydia would just be waiting there for him. His heart racing, he searched through his contacts— it was almost eleven; no way Scott and Allison were still out at dinner.

“Stiles?” Scott asked on the first ring, his voice concerned. “What’s up?”

“I can’t find Lydia,” he blurted, his heart speeding up at the words. “She went to use the bathroom fifteen minutes ago, and she never came back, and the doorman said he saw her just _leave—”_

“Wait, what?” Scott interjected. “Lydia just left without telling you?”

“Yeah, and she’s not answering her phone,” Stiles continued. “And it’s February, and she’s got a frickin’ broken _ankle—”_

“Well, where could she be?” Scott asked. “Where would she go?”

“I don’t know, Scott,” Stiles said, voice panicky again. “I don’t know why she would leave without telling me.” He was walking down the sidewalk now, fishing his wallet out of his pocket as he neared the closest T stop. “I’m gonna go back to the apartment, because— I don’t know, it’s almost eleven at night. Where _would_ she go?”

“Allison and I are still out,” Scott admitted. “Otherwise we would check.”

“No, it’s fine,” Stiles said absentmindedly, flashing his wallet with his Charlie card in it against the admission gate, hurrying through when it beeped at him. The train was pulling up right then, and he shoved his wallet back into his pocket, dashing on. “I’m headed back now. If you _see_ her or anything, although I don’t know why you would—”

“I’ll call,” Scott assured him. “You let me know when _you_ find her.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, heart still pounding. He barely registered Scott’s goodbye as the phone beeped at him, signalling his best friend had hung up. Without even thinking, he dialed Lydia’s number again, _praying_ that this time she would pick up. Again and again, it went right to her voicemail, an endless loop of her voice: _“Hi, you’ve reached Lydia Martin; I can’t come to the phone right now.”_

“Come on, Lydia,” he muttered, dialing again, even though he knew it was irrational to do the same thing over and over and hope for different results.

Still, the phone just kept ringing and ringing.

***

Lydia swore she could hear Stiles in the hall the second he stepped off on their floor.

She hadn’t even been here long— maybe ten minutes. Long enough to change out of her dress, ripping the garment from her body and flinging it to the floor of their bedroom. She’d tugged on leggings— a feat made _much_ more difficult by her goddamned cast— and then wrapped herself in one of Stiles’s flannels, which she always did when she was upset. He seemed to own about eighty thousand, so he never really minded.

She’d gone and sat on their couch afterwards, not able to look at the collage of photos on their bedroom wall, because the number of photos of them after her dance shows, her eyes bright and happy, Stiles’s expression overflowing with pride— it made her want to throw up again.

The door handle jiggled, and Lydia looked up, raising her head from her knees, curled up on the couch. A second later, the door swung open, Stiles standing there, and the look of worry on his face made her feel guilty for leaving without telling him.

 _“Lydia?_ Oh, thank god,” Stiles said, still framed by the doorway, his cheeks flushed and his expression full of relief. His shoulders sagged as he closed the door, tossing his suit jacket on a chair in the living room as he stepped into the apartment. Lydia opened her mouth to say something, but faster than she could blink, Stiles’s expression shifted, his mouth hard and eyes fiery. She just blinked in shock as he regarded her with the angriest expression she had _ever_ seen on his face directed at her. Stiles _never_ got angry with her— annoyed sometimes, sure, but he looked downright furious right now. She didn’t know how to react, so she just sat still.

“What the _hell,_ Lydia?” he finally demanded, but while his voice was raised, she didn’t flinch at his biting tone. It wasn’t like when Jackson used to yell at her, when she would literally be afraid he would hit her. Stiles was clearly pissed, but his voice didn’t sound so much angry as it sounded desperately scared.

“I almost had a panic attack!” he told her, gaze still locked on hers. “What the hell were you thinking?”

She shook her head slightly, looking away. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” she told him, truthfully, her voice small. “I had to go.”

“You had to… you had to _go?”_ Stiles demanded. “That’s _it?_ Why didn’t you come _find_ me? You just took off!”

Lydia opened her mouth again, but Stiles seemed fueled by rage, and he kept going.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he told her. “You just _disappeared._ I was _terrified,_ okay, Lydia? You can’t just do that!”

“I couldn’t be there anymore, Stiles!” she snapped back. “I couldn't handle it!” Her voice broke slightly at those words, the overwhelming, crushing feeling she’d gotten at the ball pressing down on her again.

“Then tell me we need to go! Come find me, let me know what’s happening! Don’t just _take off_ and leave without me!” He sighed, agitated, running his hand through his hair. “We _talked_ about that. I told you if it was too much, we could _go._ But you just left—” he broke off again, shaking his head. “I was scared out of my mind, okay? I had no idea where you were or where you’d gone, you weren’t answering your phone…”

“I forgot,” she said simply, glancing at her phone on the couch. In all honesty, she hadn’t been able to turn it on. She knew she’d immediately be flooded by snapchats from Adelaide, text messages from Lauren, messages saying _Boston Ballet added to their story on Instagram!_ and she _couldn’t do it,_ she _couldn’t handle it_ —

“You _forgot?”_ he asked, incredulous. Sighing agitatedly, he ran his hand over his chin, before looking at her again. “Lydia, you can’t just run off like that while you have a _broken ankle,_ okay? What if you had fallen, what if you had gotten _more_ hurt? Why didn’t you just _find_ me? I get that was a tough place for you to be, okay, but—”

She snapped at that, and she wasn’t exactly sure why— but everything that had been building up since she broke her ankle, everything she had kept to herself, hidden behind a chorus of _“I’m fine,”_ repeated over and over again— it all just kind of crashed down on her. The company was still going. They didn’t need her. She was replaceable. Her parts were reassigned, her choreography redone, her promotion handed to someone else. Everything she had worked for, everything she’d fought for her entire _life_ was crumbling and falling apart, and there was nothing she could do about it. There was nothing she could do to save the life she’d known before, and the fact that she had been staring ahead into complete mystery for the past three months, facing the horrifying reality of living in a world where she might not be able to dance— try as he might, Stiles _didn’t_ get that. He never _could_ get that. He’d never understand exactly what it felt like to see the fabric of your reality unravel right before your eyes the way she did right now.

“You have no idea what that was like, okay, Stiles?” she snapped, her voice now full of bitter anger. Her voice caught, eyes growing blurry with tears. “You have no _clue_ what being there was like for me!”

“I know I don’t, because you won’t _fucking tell me!”_ His voice broke, and Lydia could practically see his heart break, too. He looked at her with defeated, dull eyes, still reddish with unshed tears and pent up anger. “I told you going into this that I was with you. That if it was too much, we could leave, because I knew how hard it would be for you. But all night, every time I tried to ask you if you were okay, you fed me some bullshit response that you were fine. And I could _see_ that you weren't, but you wouldn’t say otherwise, wouldn’t tell me what was going through your head, so I just stood there and _waited_ for you to let me know you weren’t okay. But I can’t—” He glanced away from her for a second, blinking rapidly, before meeting her eyes again, and his voice sounded like he was pleading with her when he spoke. “How am I supposed to help you if you don’t let me in?”

She remained silent, taken aback a little bit, but Stiles continued. “You don’t always have to be fine— you know that, right?” he asked, his voice quieter. “When you feel shitty like this, _tell_ me, and I’ll try to help. I know I can’t understand what it’s like, but I can _be_ there for you, okay?” He sighed, stepping farther into the living room, closer to the couch.  “All I want is to _be there.”_ His voice rose again as he went on. “Because that’s what you _do_ in a relationship. You lay it all out for the other person, you trust them with how you feel and you lean on them while you try to fix yourself up. And then that other person _helps!”_ He swallowed, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying so hard to help you, all night. All _month._ Since you broke your ankle. But I can’t do that if you won’t lean on me, Lydia.”

“I don’t know how to lean,” she admitted, and her voice broke. Because she _didn’t,_ she realized. Lydia loved Stiles more than anything, more than anyone she’d ever loved before, but the world of ballet— if there was one thing she’d learned from being a ballerina, it was that you were always fine. Put on a face and put on the show, and worry about the rest later. It was becoming clear to her now— she was letting that bleed into the rest of her life too, reverting to the times when she’d throw up walls and cower behind them. She was turning back into the sort of person she’d used to be, before she’d learned to trust anyone in her life. The kind of person Jackson had made her, years and years ago. The reality of what this injury was doing to her hit her just then— Lydia had never been good at opening up, at admitting how scared she really was. With Jackson, with her dad… her default was to shut everyone out, to hide behind a facade. And Stiles was teaching her to be better, but still— she was becoming the sort of person again who shut people out and shut herself in.

Stiles’s expression shifted, the anger in his eyes dissipating immediately. He walked over to the couch, sitting down next to her, leaving a gap in between them, still, in case she still needed space. He reached out his hand hesitantly, taking hers and gently intertwining their fingers. He ran his thumb over the back of her palm, tracing slow, familiar circles.

“Learn. Learn with me. Let me show you, okay?” Stiles said, voice impossibly soft. “All I want to do is help you, Lydia. I just want you to feel okay again.”

That was all it took for her to break.

“I don’t know how, Stiles,” she admitted, and she couldn’t take it anymore; sliding closer to him on the couch, she sort of fell into his arms, closing the gap between them. Regardless of how mad or hurt he was, his arms were immediately around her, holding her up. Letting her lean.

“God, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, burying her head in his shoulder. “That was so stupid. I should have just found you. But I couldn’t— all of a sudden I felt like I couldn’t breathe anymore. And I didn’t want to have to explain, or have anyone see me like that. I didn’t want anyone to know I was falling apart.”

“I knew, Lydia,” he said, stroking her hair. “All night I saw you falling apart. And it’s my fault too— you didn’t say anything, so I didn’t… I don’t know. I should have done something. It seems stupid now. But you don’t have to be scared of falling apart in front of me, okay?” he said, voice pleading. “I’m never going to judge you for being at your worst. I just want to help you go up from there.”

“How do I go up from here?” Lydia asked, her words desperate. “I feel like I’m drowning. Standing in that room, seeing everyone on stage while I’m stuck in the audience, while I can’t dance— it felt like someone was crushing my lungs. And I know I’m supposed to be fine; that the cast will come off and my ankle will be back to normal. But what if I’m not? What if something happens and I can’t dance anymore?” She lifted her head from Stiles’s shoulder, meeting his eyes. “The possibility of a future without dancing _terrifies_ me. I don’t know how to cope with that reality.”

“Lydia,” he breathed, hand still sliding up and down her back, his palm warm through the flannel she wore. “I know that’s scary. Okay? I know dance is the most important thing to you.” He swallowed, the look in his eyes almost unidentifiable, overflowing with concern. “But you can’t let those fears rule your life, alright? Because I know you’re gonna pull through this. I know you’re going to get better, and that you’re going to dance again. And if you can’t… we’ll figure it out when we get there, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, dropping her head onto his shoulder again. He was right, she knew— she couldn’t keep harboring all this _fear,_ living as if the worst-case-scenarios were definite. And she wasn’t sure exactly how to do that, but she knew that Stiles would help her figure it out. “Okay, Stiles.”

“We’re gonna be okay, Lyds,” he promised, kissing the crown of her head, smoothing a hand through her messy hair. “You’re gonna make it. And I’m going to help you, okay? Just, _please,_ let me help you.” She shuddered into his shoulder, letting the feel of his arms around her keep her grounded.

“What _happened_ tonight?” he asked a minute later, her head still firmly buried in the crook of his neck. “Was it just the dancing, or was there something else?”

Lydia opened her mouth to tell him, she really did— but all of a sudden she could taste bile in her throat again, choking down the urge to vomit. She lifter her head off of Stiles’s shoulder, her body trembling. Stiles just looked at her, running his hand up and down her arm, keeping her grounded.

“I don’t think I can talk about it yet,” she told him. “I— I _will,_ I promise, but—” she shook her head, eyes blurry with tears again as that crushing feeling from the ball seeped back in. She didn’t want to feel that way now, with Stiles.

“Okay,” he said, nodding, and his eyes were still worried, but they were also full of understanding. “I’m here, Lydia,” he told her. “When you’re ready, I’m here.”

She fell into his arms again, resting her head against his shoulder. “I know,” she said, breathing him in, the feel of his arms around her immediately putting her more at rest. “I know you are.”

***

It was a little past midnight when he finally got Lydia to sleep, after brushing out her hair, braiding it back from her face for her, and tucking her into their bed. Stiles sat with her until she drifted off, but he was still too restless and jittery to sleep. He just— needed to talk to someone.

Grabbing his phone and a key, he padded across the hall, knocking softly on Scott and Allison’s door.

Scott opened it immediately, wearing sweatpants and a tank top, looking slightly sleep-ruffled. “Hey,” he said, stepping to the side to let Stiles into the apartment.

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles responded, and it wasn’t until he spoke that he realized how _tired_ he sounded.

Scott didn’t even need to ask why he was there; wordlessly, they both sat on the couch, slumping back against the cushions. Stiles’s body felt heavy, exhausted, weighed down. This night had been the closest he’d come to a panic attack since the ones he’d gotten after his mom died. The thought of losing Lydia had shaken him to his core; he wasn’t sure what he would have done if they hadn’t been able to find her. And even once he _had_ found her— he’d felt so helpless, watching her drown in her own fears. Right before she’d fallen asleep, sitting on their bed, she’d looked at him with that heartbroken, lost expression, and the words that had come out of her mouth had nearly shattered him.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t dance again,” she’d confessed, voice quiet. “I— it’s like I’m wandering through space without anything to tie me to reality. It suddenly seems like everything I’ve done has no purpose anymore. At it makes me wonder— how can I ever keep going without dance in my life?”

 _“Lydia,”_ he’d sighed, pulling her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, wishing all her worries and fears would stop taunting her and just let her be at _peace_ for once in her goddamned life. “You can’t dance forever,” he had told her, kissing the crown of her head, her forehead buried into the crook of his neck. Her arms had tightened around him, and he could feel the dampness of her tears on his shoulder through his shirt.

“I know,” she had whispered, so quiet that he wouldn’t have heard it if he couldn’t feel the words reverberating off of his skin. “But I can try.”

He’d just held her tight, hoping that she would realize soon she was so much more than just a ballerina.

“Is Allison still up?” Stiles asked. Scott shook his head.

“No. She went to bed, after you texted us to say Lydia was safe,” he explained. “The wedding planning is exhausting her.”

“And yet you, the vet school student, are still awake,” Stiles joked, leaning back against the pillows.

Scott grinned. “I know. I never sleep anymore. I feel like you.”

A moment of silence passed between them, simply because Stiles didn’t know where to start. Scott seemed to know what Stiles was thinking, because he spoke instead.

“So what happened?” he asked, eyes full of concern. “Why did she leave?”

Stiles sighed. “I still don’t really know.” He met Scott’s eyes. “She won’t tell me exactly what happened. All I know is that she saw everyone dancing and had to leave the hall, which is understandable, but…” He paused. “Something else happened, I think, that she won’t say. I don’t know what it could be.”

“Did someone say something to her?” Scott wondered. “It just seems… so unlike Lydia to do that. Just take off and not tell you. You’ve been like her anchor through this entire time.”

Stiles shrugged, looking away from Scott. “I don’t know about that. I feel completely helpless.” He met his best friend’s eyes, wondering if Scott could tell how desperate and lost he felt. “I don’t know how to help her. I… I’ve got nothing to compare to this situation. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her. But I can see her sinking deeper and deeper, and I just…” His voice broke. “I can’t figure out how to get her back to the surface. All I want to do is help her, but I can’t figure out how.”

“You’re there for her,” Scott insisted. “Even if you don’t know what it feels like, Stiles… you’ve always been there for her. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

“I know,” Stiles muttered. “I just want to be able to do _more._ Help her feel less shitty. And I don’t know how.” He sighed, shaking his head slightly, before glancing at Scott again. “You know, last month she asked when _we_ were going to get married.”

Scott’s eyes went wide. “Really?” he asked. Stiles nodded.

“Yeah. And I _want_ to marry her. I know I’m working towards being a detective, and it seems like I have my life together, but the only thing I know for sure about my future is that I want to spend the rest of it with Lydia. But—” he broke off, unsure how to continue. “Eventually she’s going to have to retire from ballet. And if she ever gets injured again and has to stop dancing, or if we want to have _kids—_ she’d have to take a whole season off, probably. Not that that changes anything,” he added, sensing Scott’s next question. “I’ve always liked the idea of having kids, but if that’s something that Lydia can’t do, that’s fine. It’s enough for me to just be with her for the rest of my life.” He met Scott’s eyes again. “I just feel like I should be able to _help_ her more than I am now with this. Especially if it ever happens again.”

“I think all you can do is be there for her to lean on,” Scott said. “Listen to her fears, try to make her feel better when you can. Pull her back from the edge when she gets too close.”

“I know,” Stiles responded, burying his face in his hands. “But that’s where she was tonight, _completely_ on the edge, and I did nothing. I knew she was panicking, and I just pretended she wasn’t lying when she told me she was fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Scott reprimanded. “Don’t blame yourself, Stiles. You’re doing the best you can.”

“I feel like I should be doing _more.”_

“I think you need to talk to her,” Scott said contemplatively, resting a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “Talk to her and figure out how you can help her. How she wants you to help her. Just because you don’t understand doesn’t mean she can’t lean on you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles responded, meeting his best friend’s eyes gratefully. “I think we need to get out of Boston, just for a little bit. I think being here is suffocating for her. Anytime she hears an ad on the radio, or sees a poster on the street, she freezes up and shuts down.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“California, I was thinking,” Stiles said. “I could probably get a week or so off of work. I’d like to see my dad, and Melissa. And Lydia’s mom lives really close there, too.”

“That would probably be good,” Scott agreed. “She probably needs distance.”

“Probably,” Stiles said. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll see what she thinks. I just want to do whatever she needs to feel better.”

 _Anything,_ he thought. _Anything in the world she needs, I swear to god I’ll do it. Just as long as Lydia can feel okay again._

***

Two weeks later, Lydia still couldn’t bring herself to talk about it.

She hadn’t texted Adelaide or Lauren since the ball, although Stiles had apparently told both of them she was okay. It wasn’t that she _blamed_ Adelaide for what had happened; she knew the other dancer had no control over what their directors did, and she would never expect her to turn down the position. Turning down promotions was unheard of. But still, there was a bitter resentment that she couldn’t help feeling towards her friend, regardless of how much she wished she _didn’t_ feel that way. The reality of the situation was that Lydia had a broken ankle and Adelaide had gotten her promotion. While she realized she shouldn’t hate Adelaide for what happened, that feeling of worthlessness still haunting Lydia made her feel like Adelaide had personally stolen her spot, shoving her out of the company and making her irrelevant. She knew it wasn’t true, and she knew she’d get over her irrational feelings regarding her friend— Adelaide, Lauren, and she had been friends since they’d joined BBII when they were all fifteen. Lydia knew that eventually she’d disassociate her feelings of rejection from Adelaide. But not here. Not while she still couldn’t dance.

When Stiles had suggested they go to California for a little bit, visit both of their parents, and just get out of Boston, she had jumped at the chance. He’d miraculously been able to get two weeks off of work, Kira and Malia had eagerly agreed to watch Finn, and before she knew it they were on a plane, heading for the west coast.

Being back in northern California was like a breath of fresh air after the stifling winter they’d spent in Boston. The city Lydia generally loved so much, the place that she had called her home since she was 12 years old— every time she turned around, she felt like she was being haunted by the consequences of her accident. The streets were littered with Boston Ballet advertisements, her Instagram feed was filled with ads of the company’s upcoming shows, and every time she turned on the television she was reminded of the performances going on without her. Despite the hell she’d put him through at the ball, Lydia was beyond grateful Stiles was still sticking with her, trying to help her get better when she couldn’t even tell him what had gone wrong in the first place.

It was hauntingly familiar, being back in her mother’s house. They’d come here for a week after visiting Stiles’s dad and Scott’s mom (although technically, she supposed, Scott’s mom _was_ Stiles’s stepmom). After her family had moved out to Boston and her parents’ marriage had fallen apart, Lydia’s mom had stayed with her in the city until she was eighteen, before hightailing it back across the country to the west coast again. She had a cute little house right by the beach now, different than the huge, echoing house Lydia had grown up in, where she would practice grand jetés down the wood-paneled hallways, desperately trying to drown out her parents’ screaming matches.

Lydia and Stiles visited her mom in the summer, as well as briefly at Christmastime, which was quite the celebration in the Stilinski-McCall household. It was strange to be here in the calm of February, while the wind was still chilly, without the chaos of Christmas celebrations with Scott, Allison, and everyone’s parents.

Stiles had miraculously slept in this morning, so Lydia sat alone with her mom in the quiet kitchen, drinking the tea her mother had brewed for both of them. Natalie had raised an eyebrow when she’d walked in wearing one of Stiles’s flannels, hands practically hidden in the cuffs, and Lydia had rolled her eyes good-naturedly at her.

It was nice, sitting with her mother, talking about things _other_ than dance. Natalie had always supported her career— she _had_ driven her to ballet every single day and moved their family across the country when Lydia got a spot in Boston Ballet School— but ballet was never her number one concern with her daughter. Lydia knew it was only a matter of time before her questions of how work were no longer distracted her mom from asking about Stiles.

“So, enough about me,” Natalie said, taking a sip of her tea. “School is the same as always. How are _you_ doing?”

“You mean other than the cast on my foot physically keeping me from dancing?” Lydia asked bitterly. “Just great, Mom.”

“Honey,” her mother said, pulling a face. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

She did. Lydia knew she wasn’t trying to bring up ballet. It was such a large part of her life, though, that asking “how are you?” really meant “how are you dealing with not being able to dance?”

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, hands clasping her steaming mug. “I— not being able to dance is really hard. It’s been taking a toll on me, definitely. It’s almost been harder for everyone else, I think. Scott and Allison. My friends from dance. _Stiles.”_

“What do you mean?” Natalie asked, her brow creasing.

Lydia shrugged. “I’ve put him through hell with this. At the ball, when I ran off… just, everything, the past few months.”

“And yet he’s still here,” Natalie said, looking at her daughter pointedly. “He’s a good guy. He’s by _far_ the best guy you’ve ever dated. He really loves you.”

Now Lydia rolled her eyes. “I know your ulterior motive here is that you just want to talk about him.”

Her mom grinned. “What, I’m not allowed to ask my daughter about her serious boyfriend?” Her expression changed, though, and she continued. “I’m serious, sweetie. Can you _imagine_ going through this with Jackson?”

“No,” Lydia huffed. “God, that would have been nightmarish. Dating him _alone_ was nightmarish.”

“I never liked him,” Natalie said decisively. “He never respected your career or what you wanted to do with your life. He never treated you like you deserved.”

Lydia nodded her head. “Not the way Stiles treats me.”

“That boy is so good to you,” Natalie agreed. “You better never break up with him.”

“Oh, so _this_ is what you really want to talk about, isn’t it?” Lydia laughed.

“Allison is getting married,” Natalie defended. “I’m just wondering if you two were considering it anytime soon.”

 _“Mom,”_ Lydia complained, but she couldn’t help her smile. “I mean, yes, probably. We talked about it a little bit. But we already live together, and we have a dog together… I told him I wasn’t sure what would change between us.” She fixed her mother with a look. “I can’t believe _you’re_ the one pushing about this. You’re the one who has sworn off marriage for the rest of time.”

Natalie shrugged. “You and Stiles are different. I can see how much you love each other. And I _would_ like some grandchildren someday.”

Lydia stiffened at that, unable to meet her mom’s eyes. “What?” Natalie asked. “Are you— I didn’t mean to pry. Does Stiles not want kids?”

“No,” Lydia said, shaking her head. “I— I don’t know. I think he does. We’ve never talked about it. But kids— I couldn’t dance if I was pregnant. I’d have to take a whole season off.”

“Oh,” Natalie said. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Mmm,” Lydia hummed. “I don’t know. I always thought _theoretically_ I’d be able to do it. Take a season off, if we ever wanted kids. But after this… I’m not sure I could go through this again.”

“Honey, I don’t want to be the one to say it,” her mom began, gently. “And I know that ballet is _very_ important to you. But that’s probably not healthy. Let me finish,” her mom insisted when Lydia immediately opened her mouth to protest. “I know it’s your career, and that you’ve worked your whole life for this. There’s nothing _wrong_ with that. But, sweetheart—” Natalie paused. “You’re going to have to retire someday. And when that day comes, you’re going to have to figure out what your life looks like without ballet in it.”

Lydia paused, unable to figure out how to respond to that, but just then Stiles walked into the kitchen, eyes still sleepy, hair adorably ruffled.

“Good morning,” he greeted both of them, walking up to the island where they sat and looping his arms around Lydia’s waist. He kissed the top of her head, his palms warm on her sides.

“Good morning,” Natalie parroted, taking her mug in her hands. “I’m going to go sit on the porch, okay? You two can chat.”

“Okay, Mom,” Lydia said, smiling slightly at her mom, grateful. Natalie threw them one last glance before she stepped out of the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone.

“I swear to god, I’m going to get you your own flannels for your birthday so you stop stealing mine,” Stiles joked, but Lydia knew he was kidding. He _loved_ it when she wore his flannels.

“Don’t you dare,” she responded. “They won’t smell like you, and then there’s no point.”

Stiles shrugged. “Fair.” She twisted in his arms to look up into his eyes, and he smiled softly at her, eyes shining with affection. She could see that ever-present worry in his expression, though, and she knew that today— today she had to tell him what had happened. They went back to Boston in less than a week, and she needed to finally come clean.

“Do you want to go to the beach today?” she asked him, voice soft. “I’d like to— we can talk.”

“Okay,” he said immediately, nodding. “Whatever you want, Lydia. And we can definitely talk.”

The beach was deserted, the cold sea breeze making the waves choppier as they crashed upon the golden shore. He and Lydia were bundled up in coats and scarves, arms interlocked as they walked along the coast. It was peaceful here, in a calming way that the city never was. The only sounds were the choppy waves and the cawing of gulls, amplified by the absence of other people. The ocean stretched on forever, it seemed, the horizon fading into the pale blue of the sky.

“Can we sit?” Lydia asked, and Stiles nodded, following her lead and sitting down next to her on the dry sand. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to shrug off the cold, and Stiles immediately had one arm draped over her shoulder, radiating warmth.

“So,” Stiles started, hesitantly, and she could tell from his tone of voice that he didn’t want to push her, but that he was also desperate to know what had happened three weeks ago at the ball.

“So,” she echoed, eyes on the horizon, unable to meet his gaze. “You know why I ran out. But then, I was in the bathroom, and I had _almost_ composed myself— enough where I thought if I just held your hand and didn’t look, I’d be able to get through the rest of the performance.”

“But,” Stiles said, voice quiet. “What happened?”

“I heard Adelaide and Lauren in the hallway,” she confessed, squeezing her eyes closed. “And— Adelaide said— she said that she was promised a promotion to soloist at the end of the season.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, waiting. She could taste the bile in her mouth again, felt her stomach twisting in knots, her heart pounding at the thought of reliving that horrific night.

“And she said it was the spot they’d promised me. She got my promotion, because I’m out.”

“Shit,” Stiles muttered, tightening his arm around her. She inhaled, trying to steady her racing heart. “Oh, god, Lydia.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come find you,” she said, finally looking up to meet his eyes. “But I just— _panicked._ I felt like the whole world had flipped on its head. Hearing Adelaide say that, it just made feel so _useless._ So _disposable.”_

“You are the _last_ thing from disposable, Lydia,” he insisted, looking right into her eyes, his expression so sure. The sunlight from above filtered through the few clouds, making his eyes golden. “You are talented, and important, and that company is really lucky to have you. Okay?”

“I don’t know,” she said, pulling away from him slowly, sitting up straight. Stiles’s arm still rested around her, curved over her back and spreading warmth through her body, radiating from his touch. “It’s like…” she started, unsure how to phrase it. “It’s like when you were the best student in class without even trying. You didn’t have to study and you barely had to put in any effort, but you still did way better than the kids who were busting their asses. But then one year, you show up, and suddenly everything is way harder. And you’re _trying,_ you’re trying so hard, but everyone is doing better than you, suddenly. And it sounds horrible, but you wonder when everyone got so much smarter than you, because _you_ used to be that person. And you start wondering if you’re good enough. If you were ever really smart enough to be there in the first place.” She sighed, meeting Stiles’s eyes. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, that pretty much sums up my senior year of college,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “It was _immensely_ shitty.”

“I feel like that’s what’s been happening to me these past couple years,” she said, looking down again, unable to meet his eyes. “Like no matter what I do, I still can’t keep up. No matter how hard I work, how much effort I put in, everyone else has already figured it out. And I’m stuck here, wondering how I even managed to get in in the first place, because I just feel _so_ inadequate.” She inhaled, continuing. “When they told me that they were going to make me a soloist, I thought that _finally,_ I did deserve to be here. That I really _was_ good enough. For once in my life, I just wanted to feel like I was special again.” She exhaled, glancing away from Stiles. “And then they gave my promotion to Adelaide, and I just… I can’t help feeling worthless. Like a failure. Like I was never good enough to be there in the first place.”

“Lydia,” he sighed again, squeezing her tighter. “You are _not_ a failure. Even if this never heals, even if you can’t dance, okay? Because you have still done amazing things, and you’re going to do _more_ amazing things. Don’t think you’re worthless, please. _Ever.”_

“I think I know why this has been affecting me so badly,” she admitted, looking down. Because not dancing had been hard on her, being physically kept back from doing what she loved, but that wasn’t _it._ There was something else that was the root of the problem, something else that had her feeling lost and helpless. And it wasn’t necessarily the cast on her foot.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, his voice still soft.

“I think I know why I keep spiraling,” she told him. “I miss being able to dance, physically. Seeing the company move on just… _shatters_ me. Makes me feel useless. But it’s more the… _emotional_ component of it, I think.” She blinked, already feeling moisture in her eyes. Even with Stiles, the person she trusted more than anyone else in the world, this was hard to talk about.

“My mom said something to me earlier,” she said, her mother’s words echoing in her head. “And… I think she was right. Dance is a huge part of my life. It’s become part of my sense of self. And without it…”  she said, meeting Stiles’s eyes. “Without it, I feel like I’m slipping away. Like I don’t know myself anymore.”

 _“Lydia,”_ he said, voice heartbroken, eyes full of pain. Because all Stiles wanted to do was fix her. That was all he’d been trying to do for the past five months. Trying to pick up her shattered pieces and put her back together. But Lydia was starting to wonder if his actions were futile. If there was any way she could ever feel whole again, if she couldn’t dance anymore.

“I don’t know who I am without dance,” she confessed, and her voice trembled with the fear building inside her, collecting since the moment she’d broken her ankle. Admitting it out loud to him felt like the most momentous thing she could say. Because she didn’t know. Up until now, her entire life had been defined by her career. With that stripped away from her, she felt like she was a complete stranger. Someone she didn’t know at all.

“I do,” Stiles breathed, his voice quiet but sure. “You’re Lydia Martin. You love math, and you’re the smartest person I have ever met, and _will_ ever meet.” He took her hand, weaving their fingers together. “You’re incredibly talented, and fiercely loyal. You have a hard time letting people in, because you’ve been hurt by people you trusted before, but when you do let your guard down, you love that person with your whole heart. You would do anything for your friends.” He swallowed, running his thumb over the back of her hand, eyes fixed on hers. “You love cheesy rom coms, and limoncello cannolis from Mike’s, and you can’t stand the smell of pine needles. You like to read physics books for fun, and you always help people with homework when they need it. You are _horribly_ guilty of stealing all the blankets on our bed. You secretly _love_ Star Wars, and have dressed up as Princess Leia for every single movie premiere we’ve gone to. Because you love me, too.” His voice broke a little at that, and Lydia was caught in his eyes, unable to look away. She didn’t think she had ever seen Stiles look at her with as much love and adoration as there was in his eyes right now. She squeezed his hand tighter, and he looked down at their interlocked fingers, swallowing. When he looked up and met her gaze again, there were almost tears in his eyes. “And I love you, Lydia. So, _so_ much. I love you for all of those reasons. Every single one.” He shook his head slightly. “Dancing is a huge part of your life. I know. And that’s not a bad thing. You love it. You’re more passionate about it than anything else. It’s made you who you are.” He paused. “But it’s not _all_ that you are. Because you’re everything I said, and _more.”_

Now Lydia could feel tears pricking in her eyes, and she let out a small, watery chuckle, pressing her lips together before grinning at Stiles. She didn’t know what to say, how she could possibly respond to that— but it didn’t matter, because he kept talking.

“You’re the girl I love. You’re the girl I’m _always_ gonna love. For the rest of my life, Lydia, no matter what. I’m never going to feel like this about anyone else.” He swallowed again, squeezing her hand. “And it doesn’t matter to me if you can dance or not. Because dance is what you love, and it’s what you do, but it’s not the only thing that defines you. And yeah— when you stop dancing, someday, you’re going to have to figure out a lot of stuff. A lot of things are going to change. But _you’re_ not.” He paused. “Because whether or not you can dance, you’re still _you._ You’re still Lydia freaking Martin. And you can do anything you put your mind to.”

Lydia couldn’t help it— at that, she lost it, giving in to the fight against her barely-contained tears. With a shaky breath, she let them roll down her cheeks; when she met Stiles’s eyes, his were full of tears too. But they shined with something else as well— adoration, determination, and more pride than Lydia had ever seen _anyone_ look at her with before. She moved forward, seizing him in a hug, wrapping her arms around his torso and burying her head into the crook of his neck, the place she had long since learned her head fit perfectly. One of his hands sifted through her hair, cradling the back of her head and holding it close, the other circling her waist and pulling her into his chest. Stiles rested his head on her shoulder, too, and the two of them just stayed there, shaking with shed tears, lungs breathing and hearts beating perfectly in sync. Stiles’s words rang in her ears, caught on endless repeat, and Lydia knew intrinsically that they were true for her too. She had never loved anyone like she loved Stiles, and she never would. He was it for her, and there was nowhere she wanted to spend the rest of her life, dancing or not, other than in Stiles’s arms.

The birds cawed around them, the waves kept crashing on the shore, and for the first time in a while, Lydia felt at _peace,_ here with Stiles’s arms around her.

***

“Lydia Martin?” a voice echoed through the waiting room, almost startling her. Stiles stopped playing with her fingers, looking up in the direction of the voice.

“You ready?” he asked her quietly, a smile tugging at his lips. She nodded decisively. She’d never been _more_ ready than she felt right now.

“This way,” the PT specialist told her, leading her back into the depths of the facility. Two weeks after her cast had come off, she already had met with the Boston Ballet physical therapists multiple times, but they thought that that the program through the hospital would be beneficial for her until she could do more intricate pointework.

Lydia’s hand tightly gripped Stiles’s, tugging him with her. Her other hand was wrapped around her dance bag, her favorite pair of pointe shoes tucked inside. Her body was jittery with excitement and nerves— after two weeks of normal PT, the doctors said she could finally try light pointework again. Even after they had assured her that her ankle had healed beautifully, that she should regain full mobility soon, she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong again. It still seemed a little surreal that the cast was _off,_ that she could walk again. She didn’t know what she would do if she found out today that she couldn’t dance anymore.

So Stiles had offered to come with her, and he promised her that if things went wrong, if she couldn’t dance, they would figure it out. Together. His words put her a little more at ease, because she knew the truth behind them. Stiles was the one who always figured it out. And the thing he was best at figuring out was her.

The physical therapist led her to the back of the room, where they had two parallel bars for people to learn to walk again on. “Why don’t you put on your pointe shoes,” the therapist said. “And we can get started.”

Her stomach fluttered as she pulled the shoes out of her bag, the satin soft and familiar underneath the pads of her fingers. Carefully, she unwound the ribbons from around the shoes, pulling the pair apart. She sat on the floor, Stiles immediately sitting next to her as she tugged on her toe pads, then the shoe, winding the ribbons around her ankle and tucking in the bows.

“I think this is the nicest I’ve ever seen your feet,” Stiles commented, looking at her one bare foot stretched in front of her. He was right— no cracked nails, no burst blood vessels, no blisters or toes encased in athletic tape— her feet practically looked _normal._ Even though she’d been off of them for almost five months, the old callouses from her pointe shoes still remained.

Lydia grinned at her boyfriend, tying off her other shoe and accepting his hand when he offered it, tugging her up to her feet. She walked over to the barre, the feeling of wearing pointe shoes again still a little surreal.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the therapist said. “Just go through warm ups.”

The barre was smooth under her hands, and she had _missed_ the feeling of it so much. Her stomach was in knots again, but that feeling of dread that had been ever present since November was gone. Instead, she felt eager, excited, and beyond all that, _hopeful._ She glanced at Stiles one last time, his smile encouraging, before taking a deep breath and rolling up onto pointe.

She almost cried at the feeling, that familiar, faint pain of all her weight being on just her big toe. It ached a little more than she was used to, probably from being off pointe so long. But it was the best feeling in the _world—_ in that moment, she truly felt like her recovery was feasible. That all the doctors might have been right, and that she would get to dance again.

“Go ahead and roll through your feet,” the therapist told her, glancing at her clipboard. Slowly, Lydia did, rising up onto relevé again and again, the feeling of being on pointe again _overwhelmingly_ good.

“That looks good,” the therapist said. “Go back up for me?” Lydia rose onto pointe again, balancing as the doctor bent down, examining her ankle.

“It looks like it healed beautifully,” the woman said, standing back up. “You’re very lucky. I’d guess you’ll have full mobility back before the end of the spring.”

“Really?” Lydia asked, something inside her just _humming_ with relief. She looked behind her to meet Stiles’s eyes, and his smile shone brighter than she’d ever seen. “So I should be okay for next season?”

“Oh, definitely,” the therapist said, voice certain. “You could probably do the summer programs, if you keep up with PT.”

Lydia almost cried, her shoulders sagging in relief. She was _okay._ Everything was going to go back to normal, and she was going to be able to dance again.

She felt Stiles’s hand, heavy on her shoulder, and he squeezed it encouragingly as she tried to steady her breathing, reminding her that he was there. He’d always be there for her, no matter what happened, and for that, Lydia could never thank him enough.

“Everything looks perfect,” the therapist repeated, smiling warmly at Lydia. “You’re going to be okay, Miss Martin.”

For the first time in what felt like _months,_ Lydia actually believed she would be.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, have some dresses: 
> 
> Allison's wedding dress is [this.](http://www.davidsbridal.com/Product_lace-illusion-wedding-dress-with-deep-v-neckline-4xlmk3718_all-wedding-dresses)
> 
> The dress Lydia wears to the ball is [this dress](http://cdn02.cdn.justjared.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/roden-hboem/holland-roden-emmanuelle-chriqui-are-radiant-ladies-at-hbo-emmys-10.JPG) (she wears her hair up, though.) 
> 
> Stiles totally rocks Dylan's American Assassin premiere look to the ball because those photos [still](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DK9mUoeXoAABvB8.jpg) [emotionally](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/18/7f/4e/187f4eae26ec97483fc15db9c8898293.png) [compromise](https://68.media.tumblr.com/9a54921a3e2c224ebac260d855d3ce42/tumblr_ovvx1dZGV01thh4tpo2_1280.jpg) me.
> 
> [This](https://www.instagram.com/p/BQG_rlCllFj/?taken-by=bostonballet) is what the ball looked like last year, for the record. And [these](https://www.instagram.com/p/BCyj9TNylOd/?taken-by=bostonballet) are the Gâité Parisienne costumes, because they're awesome. 
> 
> Oh, ALSO: I should probably mention this is SO medically inaccurate. I get skeeved out researching injuries, so I did a VERY preliminary google search and called it quits. If you ever break your ankle, please listen to your doctors and not to this fic. 
> 
> Thank you again so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it :)


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